15
When you encounter unpleasantness from the human population, try to keep in mind that you will be able to dance on their graves long after they’re dead. It’s a cheering thought.
—From The Guide for the Newly Undead
As I headed toward my three-month undead anniversary, I got twitchy. Not “espresso marathon” twitchy but certainly not the sort of person you’d want to get stuck in an elevator with. My nerves were crawling under my skin. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t find anything I wanted to drink, but I still drank every drop of fake blood in the house—which I was sure would go straight to my thighs.
It took two episodes of an Intervention marathon for me to realize I was going through book withdrawal. I hadn’t purchased a new one in more than a month. And I hadn’t checked anything out of the library since the morning before I was fired…which also meant I had four books that were long overdue.
I had late fines.
I had never had late fines in my entire life.
I had to go to the library, right? It was closing in an hour, and there couldn’t be that many people there this late on a weeknight. Plus, I needed more information about wolves’ mating habits and the probability of accidental friend mauling. I’d done some research online, but I didn’t know how reliable it was. According to WerewolvesDebunked.com, werewolves manage to pass as human but they are far more in touch with their natural instincts than most humanoid creatures. It can mean a certain earthy, rugged appeal for the werewolf males who manage to hold on to all their teeth. But it also means they’re impulsive, temperamental, fiercely territorial, and not a whole lot of fun one week a month. They had my sympathy on that count.
Werewolf metabolism is so high that they have to scarf down calories all day just to sleep all night, like a mini-hibernation. Thanksgiving in a werewolf clan is like a full-on farm-animal massacre. Multiple turkeys, hams, chickens, sides of beef, legs of venison, and then they fight over the bones in the weirdest touch-football game ever. But constantly thinking and talking about food is what makes werewolves some of the best chefs in the world.
Think about it. Have you ever seen Emeril Lagasse during a full moon?
Contrary to popular myth, werewolves are born, not made. No matter how many times they bite someone, that person will not turn, though they will probably bleed profusely and will definitely be annoyed. Also, were-creatures can change day or night, no matter what phase of the moon. But their change is less controlled, more complete, during the full moon.
Personally, I thought they used it as an excuse. “Oh, I can’t remember eating your chickens and peeing on your couch. I was wolfed out last night.”
Werewolves are pack animals, led by a patriarchal alpha male. A pack generally lives in close quarters, filling an apartment complex, a subdivision, or a gated community in more affluent clans. In Southern packs, it usually means parking a number of trailers and houses on a farm. This fits nicely into the redneck stereotype of big, dysfunctional, overly close families.
After the chaos of the Coming Out, werewolves were sure that vampires had doomed themselves to extinction. Since many werewolves consider vampires to be stuck-up, pretentious snobs, they didn’t consider it a great loss. Most were-creatures watched with interest as vampires integrated into human society, but few were ready to come out into the open. Werewolves share their secrets with few select, trusted humans. Those who betray werewolf clans…well, I don’t know what happens to them, because they’re never heard from again.
While this information was a good start, it didn’t do much to convince me of Zeb’s safety.
On top of my research problems, I needed Mrs. Stubblefield’s signature to file for undead unemployment benefits, a service for new vampires. The 2000 Census showed that 29 percent of newly turned vampires lost their jobs during the unexplained three-day absence while they waited to rise. New vampires who lost their jobs could file for Council-funded benefits for up to six months. Fortunately, you didn’t have to prove that losing your job was a result of being turned. And since people expected me actually to pay for my synthetic blood, I was going to need all the help I could get.
Besides, I had to face the library sometime, right?
Well, I couldn’t. I got as far as the book drop in the parking lot and had a crisis of spine. I pictured having to make eye contact with my former coworkers, checking books out from the public side of the desk, looking Mrs. Stubblefield in the eye, and watching Posey incorrectly shelve books. I just couldn’t do it.
So I shoved the books into the drop and ran away like a girl. It took me a few blocks before I realized I’d forgotten my car, which was becoming a bit of a habit. I slowed on a seedier section of Main Street, with its big decaying brick structures from the town’s boom days. My parents never ventured through this part of town when I was growing up, and my mother offered dire warnings of what might happen if I did. And now that I was walking down the dark, weed-choked street, I could see why. I passed several pawn shops, liquor stores, a shop with cardboard sign over the windows that simply said “Videos.” And on the corner, I noticed a little blue sign that read “Specialty Books,” in peeling gold paint.
Half-Moon Hollow’s literary outlets were limited to an ailing Waldenbooks and the library. How could there be a bookstore in this town that I was unaware of? Of course, this place didn’t look as if it was a member of the local chamber of commerce.
Sure that I was about to enter a cleverly disguised adult bookstore, I pushed the door open. An old cowbell tinkled above the door as I walked in. It was an Ali Baba’s cave of literary treasures, their cracked spines winking out at my superhuman eyes through the incredibly bad lighting. I loved old books as much as the next bibliophile, but these were crumbling, suffering. I wandered the shelves, running my fingers over the spines. The shop offered everything from sixteenth-century manuscripts hand-copied by monks to old Tales from the Crypt comics, but finding either on purpose would be a small miracle.
Hanks of herbs hanging from the ceiling, candles of all colors and shapes, and scattered crystal geodes only added to the air of committed disorganization. There was no effort to let the customer know what subjects were located where. Plus, there didn’t appear to be a division of subjects, anyway. Books on astral projection were mixed in with books on herb gardening. Books on postdeath tax issues were mixed in with guides on the proper care and feeding of Yeti.
I picked up an orange soft-cover book, titled The Idiot’s Guide to Vampirism.
“It is official. Vampires are now uncool,” I muttered to no one, as there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the building.
I shuffled through the books. There were some useful selections, but it took a keen eye to find them.
Werewolves: A Vampire’s Best Friend or Foe?
A Compendium of Self-Defense Spells.
From Fangs to Fairy Folk: Unusual Creatures of Midwestern North America.
50 Ways to Add Variety to Your Undead Diet.
Living with the Dead: How to Happily Occupy a Haunted House.
And perhaps the most bizarre title: Tuesdays with Morrie.
I was so engrossed in my task, I didn’t detect the presence over my shoulder that asked, “Oh, hello, what are you doing?”
I turned to see a skinny old man, wizened to the point of cuteness. He was dressed in a gray cardigan with skipped buttons and brown corduroy pants held up with a black leather belt and bright red suspenders. There was a Mont Blanc pen stuck behind his ear, practically lost in the frizzled gray nest of hair. A pair of bifocals, repaired with white tape and a paper clip, sat perched on his balding crown.
I looked down and saw I was balancing stacks of books in my hands. I hadn’t even realized that I’d spent about a half hour sorting the books by fiction, nonfiction, author, then subject. It was as if I were in some sort of alphabetically induced trance.
I dropped the books to the floor. “I’m so sorry. I’m a complete freak. I used to work at the library, and it—it just drives me crazy to see books so out of order.”
“It’s a pretty habit. There are more shelves in the back, you know.” He grinned. Following Gabriel’s advice, I cast out my senses, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing. He was 100-percent human, just a funny old man who loved weird stuff.
“I must be the rudest customer you’ve ever had,” I moaned, shelving the books.
He chuckled. “No, that would be Edwina Myers, a horrible woman who tries to close me down every few years. Claims I’m a bad influence. Though whom I’m influencing I have no idea.” He nodded to the empty store.
“I’ve lived in the Hollow for my whole life. How did I not know about this place?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t advertise in the Yellow Pages. And there’s a limited interest in occult books in the Hollow. We don’t have walk-in business. I like to think of the store as one of those mystical places you pass right by unless you already know it’s there.”
“But I found it.”
“Yes, you did. Gilbert Wainwright, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.
“Jane Jameson.” I reached out to shake it, then shrieked as my fingers brushed the silver band he wore around his middle finger. I yowled, and my fangs extended. A defense mechanism, I suppose, kind of like cursing when you touch a hot iron. I drew back my hand and watched the dirty gray streak across my palm fade away.
“How interesting,” he said, his voice tinged with awe as he stared at his ring. “It’s still thrilling to meet one of your kind, you know. The Great Coming Out was a dream come true for me. As a boy, I used to pretend I was a vampire hunter on a mission to kill Dracula. Or I would pretend I was the vampire, stalking the foggy streets of London for a tasty lady of ill repute.”
“You must have had a very interesting childhood,” I said, suppressing a smirk.
I don’t think he heard me, because he continued, “It came as absolutely no surprise to me that vampires lived among us, so to speak. I’ve devoted my entire life to studying the paranormal. Ghosts, demons, the living dead, the undead, were-creatures. I’ve always found it all fascinating. But still, it gives me a zing whenever I see that.” He nodded at my healing palm.
“Gave me a zing, too,” I said, my fangs snagging my lip when I smiled.
He took a moment to get the joke and laughed uproariously. “Yes, yes, in the future, I suppose it would be more polite to offer vampires my left hand.”
“Or you could take the ring off,” I suggested.
“Oh, no,” he said, absently stroking the worn band. “I never take it off.”
“OK, then. Not cryptic at all.” I chuckled. “You have an interesting selection here, Mr. Wainwright. How much of this was added after the Coming Out?”
He gave me a curious look.
“You had books on vampire diets and after-death tax issues before you knew for sure that we existed?” I asked. He nodded. “Do you have any books on ancient vampire laws? Because I’m pretty sure I’m getting hosed on a murder rap.”
“Actually, no, but I can probably find something if you give me a few days,” Mr. Wainright said, apparently unimpressed by my mentioning the murder thing. This made me wonder about his clientele. “So much of my business is handled online now, I just don’t have time to keep things up here at the store.”
“You sell online?”
“Eighty percent of my sales are online. My Web site registers fifty thousand hits per month.” A smirk lifted the wrinkles at his mouth. “Loyal customers and eBay are enough to keep me going. Just last week, I sent three volumes on were-monkeys to Sri Lanka.”
“Were-monkeys?” I repeated, unsure if he was joking.
Obviously upset by my lack of familiarity with were-monkeys, Mr. Wainwright gave me a copy of A Geographical Study of Were-Creatures. He explained that he became familiar with the more exotic weres while he served in World War II. After that, he continued to pursue his interests abroad. There are some things you just can’t study in the Hollow. He’d returned home thirty years earlier to tend to his ailing mother, who had died only the previous year.
I scanned the shop. It had so much potential. And now, with the emerging vampire population, there was an emerging market. And I’d be able to work around books again. The schedule would be flexible, and the boss seemed to understand, nay, embrace, my special needs. Sure, there wouldn’t be a lot of kids in an occult bookshop, but you can’t ask for everything.
“I don’t suppose you’d be looking for a shop assistant, would you?” I asked. “I could box and ship orders, do some shelving, maybe a little light cleaning. I could start off part-time, night hours, obviously, on a trial basis to see whether it works out.”
Mr. Wainwright chewed his lip thoughtfully and patted his pockets. It looked as if he was searching for his glasses, which were perched on top of his head. I plucked them from his crown and pressed them gently into his hands. He smiled.
“I’ve worked in the public library for six years. I have a master’s in library science. I have experience helping people finding the right books for their needs.”
“It sounds like you might be overqualified, dear.”
“I’m not, really. I just want to work around books again.”
At the rear of the store, a bookcase collapsed, sending several leather-bound books skittering across the floor. He lifted a scraggly white eyebrow. “Perhaps you could start off with some reorganization,” he said, looking at the neat stacks of books I’d arranged around us. “You seem to have a steady hand at that.”
I had learned my lesson from Greenfield Studios, so we sat down to discuss schedules, pay scale, distribution of responsibilities, and the fact that at some point, he was going to want to see a copy of my résumé. I left the shop feeling considerably lighter than before. I believe happy people call this emotion hope.
I got as far as the parking lot before I ducked my head back through the door, thanked my new boss, and said, “Mr. Wainwright, do me a favor, if you meet a woman named Ruthie Early, don’t marry her.”
I emerged from my first night shift at Specialty Books covered in dirt and suffering several injuries that would have probably resulted in tetanus before I was turned. But I was happier than I’d been in weeks. It was like being given a glimpse into my life before my firing.
My first order of business was cleaning. I chased several generations of spiders from the storage closet with a very large broom. I scrubbed the windows until you could actually see outside. (I remained undecided about whether that was a good thing.) I hauled away the broken shelves and organized the stock into piles by subject. I had not found Mr. Wainwright’s office or computer, but I did find what could have been a blueberry muffin petrifying in the back of the cash-register drawer. Also a small vial of dirt, a mummified paw of some sort, a pack of Bazooka, and currency issued by twelve governments, three of which had collapsed.
And at the end of the day, you could not tell I’d done anything. But still, Mr. Wainwright was thrilled to have that paw back. He’d been looking for it for twelve years.
We didn’t have a single customer all night, but Mr. Wainwright assured me this was normal. He shooed me away just after one A.M. The shop was closed for the next few days, he reminded me, because he was about to leave town on a purchasing trip in deepest, darkest Tennessee.
“But I look forward to seeing you on Monday. It’s been so refreshing having someone else to talk to. I mutter to myself, of course, and to the plants, but I rarely answer back.”
I looked over the shriveled remains of a spider plant. “And the plants don’t seem to be on speaking terms with you, either.”
Mr. Wainwright was still hooting at that one as he bustled me out of the shop.
Euphoric about my newfound and respectable employment, I took my dog for a very long walk on the old farm property to celebrate. As happy as I was to have a job, I knew it meant Fitz would have to readjust to my schedule, just after getting used to me being nocturnal. Plus, even with Aunt Jettie’s “hanging around,” he would be alone more often after weeks of constant attention. I imagined this was what mothers felt when heading back to work after maternity leave…only with more slobbering and shedding.
Sensing my guilt-based permissiveness, Fitz decided to push at the usual walk rules: no running away where I couldn’t see him, no rolling in substances I couldn’t identify, and no chasing woodland creatures that can fight back.
We explored areas of River Oaks we’d never seen at night: the creek where I’d showed Jenny how to swing on wild grapevines on one of her rare visits to Aunt Jettie’s, the path where I had to carry Jenny when she fell off the grapevine and broke her leg, post holes left by a fence I’d had to tear down as penance for letting Jenny break her leg. Fitz chased irate bullfrogs on the normally peaceful shore of the cow pond and gave a possum the chance at an Oscar-winning death scene.
I found a sturdy-looking oak and climbed catlike, leaping from branch to branch until I could see the house, the road beyond, the faint-twinkling lights of town in the distance. It still seemed strange that all of this had been passed to me. River Oaks had always seemed like its own little kingdom when I was a kid. And I couldn’t honestly say that I’d seen every inch of it. It seemed right that I would be able to look after it for generations to come. Maybe if Jenny’s children’s children’s children managed to outgrow their genetic predisposition to jackassery, I would pass it along to them one day.
From the base of the tree, Fitz barked and spun in circles. He apparently didn’t care for my Tarzan routine. I jumped, careful to avoid smacking into branches on the way down. I landed on my feet with a soft thwump. Fitz, who was used to me landing on other parts of my body, sat on his rump and cocked his head.
“I know, it’s new for me, too, buddy,” I told him, scrubbing behind his ears. “You’ll get used to it, I promise. Do you want to race back home? Huh, boy? Want to race?”
At the word “race,” Fitz broke into a run, streaking across the field in a blur of dirty brown-gray. I gave him a few seconds’ head-start before running after him. When I loped past him, Fitz gave a confused bark, nipping at my heels as if to say, “This is not how we do things! You chase me! Not the other way around!”
I jogged up the porch steps, Fitz close at my heels. With long strings of thirsty doggie drool hanging from his jowls, he made a beeline for the water bowl I kept in the corner of the porch. As he did, some organic alarm crawled up my spine. Something smelled weird, which was normal where Fitz was concerned. But this scent was chemical, sweet, familiar. It was a garage smell, something I can remember my dad keeping on the shelf with wiper fluid and car-wash supplies. It seemed to be coming from the end of the porch.
Using all the speed I could muster, I leaped over my dog and slapped the water bowl out of his reach. I landed on my side with a thud. Water splashed across my chest, and the bowl skittered down to the lawn. Fitz cocked his head and stared at me with a “What the hell?” expression—which, frankly, was becoming far too familiar.
I swiped at the water soaking my shirt and sniffed. I remembered the smell. Antifreeze. There was antifreeze in Fitz’s water dish. If he drank it, he would have died a miserable, painful death, and I probably wouldn’t have realized what had happened to him. I wasn’t even sure I had antifreeze in my garage. There was no possible way it had accidentally landed in the bowl. Someone had come onto my property, onto my porch, and put it there. Someone had intentionally tried to hurt my dog.
This was not a stupid teenage prank. This was someone who was serious about hurting me through Fitz. What the hell? Who was angry enough at me to do that?
“It’s OK,” I told Fitz, who was sniffing at my neck. “It’s OK. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
I took the bowl inside and washed it carefully, then threw it away in a fit of compulsive madness, because I knew I’d never feel it was safe again. I fed Fitz a Milk-Bone and gave him fresh water. With shaking hands, I stroked his fur as he gnawed on his treat, blissfully unaware.
If you want to hurt me, fine. Take my books. Burn down my house. Shave my head while I’m sleeping. But nobody, nobody screws with my dog.
After the water-bowl incident, I was afraid to leave Fitz at home alone while I was at work. I decided the safest place for him would be at Zeb’s. I didn’t elaborate on the reasons, because, frankly, I hadn’t quite absorbed it all yet and didn’t want to have to explain what happened. I just told Zeb that I’d taken a night job and Fitz was having trouble adjusting. I asked Zeb and Jolene to keep an eye on him for a few nights. Jolene was thrilled, as she and Fitz got along famously. And short of a Secret Service detail, I didn’t think I could ask for better canine protection than a werewolf escort.
But when I dropped Fitz off for their first sleepover, Zeb looked, well, weird. Dazed and weird, while Jolene was practically jumping out of her skin. “We have something to tell you,” he said.
It was curious how quickly they’d become a “we.” “We wanted” and “we have.” And I used to be a “we.” Zeb and I were “the” we. And I was suddenly relegated to being a “you.” I would have sulked further if a loopy, stupid grin hadn’t split Zeb’s face as he said, “We wanted you to be one of the first people to know that—”
“We’re gettin’ married!” Jolene crowed, waving a ringed hand in front me. “We’re engaged!”
“What the hell?”
Jolene’s head snapped toward me as I let loose the first words that came to mind. Damn my nonexistent internal filter.
“Not the reaction I expected,” Zeb said, putting his arm around a paled Jolene. Clearly, it was not the reaction she expected, either.
“I think I’ll just go get a snack,” she mumbled as she walked away.
“What is wrong with you?” Zeb demanded as he pulled me outside onto his back deck.
“Me? What is wrong with you? You’ve known her for two months,” I hissed, jerking my head toward the kitchen, where Jolene stood, nervously gnawing on Fritos.
“Could you be more rude?” Zeb demanded.
“I like Jolene, Zeb. She seems nice and everything, but you can’t spring ‘Hey, my girlfriend’s a werewolf’ and ‘Hey, we’re getting married’ in the same month. It’s just too much. Wolves mate for life. Did you know that? If you want to get a divorce, she could, I don’t know, eat you or something. And what about her family? We’ve already established that they don’t like vampires. How pleased are they going to be that she’s marrying outside her species?”
He rolled his eyes. “Humans marry werewolves all the time. Sure, there are some old-school packs who pride themselves on their pure old blood and refuse to breed with outsiders. They’re the ones who turn out cross-eyed cubs with extra toes.
“Progressive packs, like Jolene’s, they’re actually grateful to have fresh genes stirred into the pool,” he said. “All right, fine, some of her cousins are kind of pissed about it. But her parents are really nice, much nicer than mine. Our children would be half werewolf, giving them fifty-fifty chance of being able to turn. Personally, I kind of hope they can, because that would be cool.”
I ignored the second abdominal twinge at the thought of Zeb having children. “But what if you’re not safe? What if she hurts you while she’s all, you know, grrr?”
“Funny coming from the girl who tried to make me her first vampire meal,” he said, ignoring the face I made at him. “Look, I didn’t think of you as any less human after you changed.”
“You stabbed me.”
“After my initial shock, I got over it, and I still saw you as the same Janie,” he said. “You’re the same person you always were, which, of course, means you’re a giant pain in my ass. But you would never let anything happen to me. And neither would Jolene.” He held up his hand to shush me when my mouth popped open to protest. “Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.”
He huffed out a breath. “She could be suspicious of me having a best friend who’s a woman, but she’s not. And trust me when I say that being territorial is her nature. I would hope that you’d show her the same, I don’t know, courtesy.”
Well, that made me feel awful.
“Yeah, but Zeb…” I whispered. “Werewolf.”
“Vampire,” he said, pointing at me.
“Noted,” I muttered.
“I know, I don’t know everything about her, but I want to spend the rest of my life learning.” He sighed. “I love her. This is a woman I look forward to seeing every day, Janie, and I’ve never felt that way about anyone, except maybe you. I always figured, well, that you and I would end up in some nursing home together, fighting over the last pudding. But then you had to screw it up and go all immortal and ageless on me.
“Your change has opened my eyes to a world I never even imagined could be real. I knew vampires were out there, but I never thought I would know one, much less have one for my best friend. And seeing how well you’ve handled things…in your own special ass-backward way…I never would have had the courage to marry into Jolene’s family.”
I snorted.
“You are the wind beneath my wings?” he offered.
“If you start to sing, I will bite you,” I growled. “So, when are you planning to do this?”
“As soon as possible. Jolene has been waiting a long time to be, um, married,” he said, struggling with the choice of words.
“Last single cousin in her pack?” I asked.
Zeb looked embarrassed. “Well, wolves mate for life, so…”
“So she’s never…wow,” I marveled.
“Yeah.”
I wanted this for Zeb. A nice woman who, after lots of time, and possibly medication, I would able to share Zeb with. Not in a gross way. Jolene was someone who was dealing with her own “special circumstances.” Someone who would be able to understand my special circumstances and embrace them instead of making Zeb find new “normal” friends and join a progressive dinner club.
So, why was I being a jerk about this?
“We were sort of hoping you would be the maid of honor,” Zeb said. His expression made it clear that he knew how I felt about wearing another bridesmaid’s dress. “We both know you’d be the best man for me, anyway. And Jolene has too many cousins to choose one without causing a blood feud.”
I made a distressed little noise. On the other side of the window, Jolene’s million-watt smile beamed. I would worry about the fact that she had heard our entire conversation later. “But I barely know her.”
“She likes you. And this would be a great way to get to know her,” Zeb said in his special “I’m making a point” voice. “By the way, her colors are peach and cornflower blue.”
Dizzied by thoughts of giant butt bows and matching shawls, I stammered, “But—but I can’t do this again—”
Zeb tipped his head, all smiles and Precious Moments eyes. “I love you.”
“Dang it, Zeb. That’s not fair.”