16
Because vampires tend not to trust perceived bias in human media sources, they depend largely on “word of mouth” to stay informed of current events. This can lead to a localized and somewhat limited world view.
—From The Guide for the Newly Undead
With Fitz safe and sound, I threw myself into my work. It had taken me just a few nights for Mr. Wainwright to leave me unsupervised. I think once someone returns your wallet to you, cash intact, four times, it tends to cement your faith in that person’s character. I wasn’t returning the same wallet repeatedly. It was various wallets from over the years that I found misplaced all over the shop. Mr. Wainwright had to be public enemy number one on the credit-card companies’ frequent-card-loser watch list.
Mr. Wainwright never had to worry about my productivity in his absence, though I did take frequent breaks to study the books. I had missed that smell, old paper and starched cover canvas. Cozied between the crowded shelves, my feet propped up on a stack of Encyclopedia Demonica, and my nose buried in a first edition of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, it was like returning home after a long exile. Mr. Wainwright, who lived in a little apartment above the shop, had a hard time getting me to leave in the mornings. I wanted to wallow in the old volumes, some priceless, some cheap reproductions, all housed together in a mishmash. I had a purpose here. I belonged. The books needed me.
The cowbell on the shop door rang, jolting me out of Geneva circa 1818. I dashed for the door, eager to help a live customer…or, really, any customer. A pulse wasn’t necessary.
I found Ophelia the Teen Vampire Queen perched on the counter, wearing a black velvet minidress and silver go-go boots, flipping through a copy of From Caesar to Kennedy: Vampires and Their Clandestine Political Influence throughout History.
“Ophelia?”
She snapped the book shut and gave me what I’m sure passed for one of her warm smiles. “Jane, nice to see you. I was pleased to learn that you’d found another job. From what I hear, you need some constructive ways to fill your time.”
Suddenly aware that I was surrounded by literary chaos and covered in an inch-thick layer of shop grime, I wiped my hands on my jeans. “How did you know I work here?”
She hopped off the counter and gave me a wry look. “We know everything, Jane.”
The way she said that was unsettling, implying not only that the council seemed to know every detail of my life but that they knew things that I was trying to conceal. And so far, I wasn’t trying to conceal anything from them, so this was distressing.
I cleared my throat and tried casually to sort through some remaindered ritual candles. “Can I find something for you, or are you just browsing?”
“I thought I made the reason for my visit clear with that comment about constructive use of your time,” she said pointedly.
“I know, I was trying to gloss over it.” I sighed, turning to her and crossing my arms. “Would you mind just asking me the questions this time instead of yanking the answers out of my cortex?”
“I didn’t bring Sophie along, because she assures me that you are a terrible liar,” Ophelia said, stretching her lips into a thin smile. “Don’t mistake this as a compliment. I merely came by to let you know that the investigation into Walter’s death continues. In fact, it has become far more interesting in the last few weeks as rumors of your behavior just after your turning have come to our attention.”
I thought back to the night I rose, running through what I did and what could be construed as a vampire faux pas. “OK, so it was a mistake to try to feed from my friend, but Gabriel stopped me. Zeb wasn’t hurt. In fact, he has no memory of that night, so no harm done.”
“I don’t know who this Zeb person is, and I don’t particularly care. I am referring to the widely circulating public opinion that you and Walter were involved in a passionate affair,” she said, the hint of a smirk giving her youthful features a cruel, unnatural twist. “That he broke it off because you were too possessive and ‘clingy.’ And that you attacked him at the Cellar and set him on fire in a jealous rage.”
“Why—why—why would anybody say that?” I stammered. “Why would I get involved in a passionate affair with anybody right after turning, much less a passionate affair with Walter? And what do you mean by circulating public opinion? Does that mean a bunch of vampires are sitting around gossiping about me?”
“Our social circles tend to be rather limited but close-knit. We do enjoy it when a little excitement spices up an otherwise dull conversation,” she admitted. “And once you are the subject of a story our community enjoys repeating, it’s difficult to convince the tellers that it’s less than the absolute truth. It’s a fault of our species.”
“You all sound like my mama and her friends.” I leaned heavily against the counter. “I don’t know which part is worse, that people think I set Walter on fire or that they think I dated that mung bean.”
“As you know, if these stories were true, the council would be far less sympathetic to your case. We can support self-defense or a legitimate battle to the death. But we can’t just let vampires run around throwing matches at each other because of lovers’ spats.”
“Trust me, it’s not true,” I told her. “I’d never met Walter until that night, and he’s the one who attacked me, not the other way around.”
“I’d hoped as much,” Ophelia said. “You seem to have better taste. On that note, you should also know that there are certain stories circulating about you and Dick Cheney, stories that were told with a bit more zeal.”
“Stories about our being bosom companions with no hint of sexual tension whatsoever?”
There was the nasty little smile again. “Stories about the two of you committing indecent acts in the bathroom at Denny’s.”
“What?”
“And the photo booth at the mall. And the Sanderson crypt at Oak View Cemetery.”
“Well, that’s just in poor taste,” I complained. “None of those stories is true, either.”
“You wouldn’t be the first young vampiress that Dick Cheney has…charmed,” she said, her smile fading.
“I haven’t been charmed,” I insisted. “My relationship with Dick is nothing more than a budding friendship based on ridiculously inappropriate banter. Where is all this stuff coming from? Why am I suddenly the Lindsay Lohan of the vampire set?”
Ophelia shrugged. “If they behave themselves, new vampires slip unnoticed from one group to the other, quietly accepted by the vampire community. But you seem to have an enemy. Someone is trying to keep you alienated from other vampires, to keep them suspicious of you. I can’t track the rumors back to a specific source; it’s always something heard from a friend of a friend of a friend, which is typical for the Hollow. Did stories like this follow you around when you were living?”
“No. I mean, other than the typical mean girl stuff in school. Mary Rose Davis accused me of pleasuring our school football team with the aid of Jell-O products, but she was just angry that I beat her for Beta Club treasurer.” Ophelia obviously was not prepared for this mental image and did not respond. “Oh, and Craig Arnold told everybody he ‘made me a woman’ in the back of his pickup after Homecoming. The truth was he was finished before he could get my panty hose down, and then he threw up on my dress. But he told everybody in our grade he’d given me the ride of my life…oh, and that I was frigid and lay there like a dead fish.”
Ophelia glared, tilting her head at me. “I’m sorry, was that an attempt at bonding with me because I appear to be a teenager?”
I sighed. “Generally, I was well liked when I was alive. Not exactly popular but certainly not the target of slander and possible public execution. And I haven’t had any run-ins with anybody since I was turned, except, of course, Walter.”
“Until you can figure out who might wish you harm, I would advise you to keep a low profile. Avoid situations that can be misconstrued. Don’t give us a reason to question your actions further.”
“But if you know I can lie to you, if you don’t believe any of this, why am I still being investigated?” I asked.
“Because the council answers to higher authorities in the vampire community. Even if we cannot supply real justice, we have to give the impression that we’re trying. Otherwise, the delicate balance of power we have built since the Coming Out will topple down on our heads.”
“So I’m a cautionary tale?”
“In a word, yes.”
“I’ll be good,” I promised.
“Excellent. Good night,” she said, pinching my cheek in an extremely patronizing manner. She turned on her high heel and walked toward the door.
“Can I ask one more question?”
“Good night.” She continued out the door without looking back.
“Well, that was cryptic and unhelpful,” I muttered, walking around the counter to the mini-fridge where Mr. Wainwright happily stocked a supply of Faux Type O for me. I drank it cold, which gave it a sort of rusty aftertaste, but I was too distracted to try to find the microwave.
My genetic propensity toward denial was just keen enough to allow me to put off connecting the nighttime visitors to my house, the car vandalism, the attempted dog poisoning, and now these unholy rumors about me being the sluttiest vampire since Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. And sitting there, propped against the counter, drinking my frigid fake dinner, I finally allowed myself to mull over the circumstances that had led me here.
Fact: Bud McElray was still out there somewhere.
I didn’t know if Bud was aware that he’d shot me, and even if he was, I doubted he would march into the sheriff’s department to confess to driving drunk (again) and shooting some poor roadside bystander. But maybe he remembered just enough through his drunken haze, doubled back to find my car the next day, and figured out whom he’d shot.
From what I knew of Bud, he would have no qualms about poisoning an innocent dog or using blood to paint antifeminist slurs on a car. Maybe he’d recognized that I was a vampire since I survived and I was not showing up in the daytime anymore. Maybe he was trying to intimidate me so I wouldn’t go to the police.
That was an awful lot of maybes. And I doubted that Bud had that many gossipy contacts to spread vicious lies within the vampire world.
Moving on.
Fact: This could be some elaborate plot on Jenny’s part to get rid of me and move into River Oaks.
Far-fetched? Sure. Jenny didn’t have any contacts in the vampire world, as far as I knew. But she was always doing that sales-party/social-networking stuff. There was no telling whom she’d come into contact with. And the woman idolized Martha Stewart. God only knew what she was capable of.
But if she was going to paint “BLOODSUCKING WHORE” on my car, Jenny would have probably used a whimsical font and subdued matte craft paint.
Fact: I didn’t know anything about Andrea Byrne beyond what she had told me.
As much as I hated to suspect a new friend, it was Andrea who suggested going to the Cellar in the first place. Did I really keep track of how much she drank that night? Was the snuggly-drunk routine an act? Gabriel said vampires kept pets. Could Andrea be an operative planted by a vampire to torment me? If I could control my stupid mind-reading powers, I would know.
The question was what vampire would want to torment me.
Fact: Gabriel could have turned me just so he could play creepy James Spader mind-games with me.
I chose not to explore that last one.
Mama was master of the “psychological reset.” It went something like this: We’d have an argument. I’d hurt her feelings (or I’d disobey a direct order, pretty much the same thing). She’d sulk for a while and refuse to speak to me until I apologized. Eventually, she’d realize that I was not going to apologize. Then she’d just breeze back into my life as if the disagreement never happened. And we’d be right back where we started.
It was infuriating. It was toxic. It was evil. But damned if it wasn’t extremely effective. How do you continue an argument with someone who claims to have no memory of the argument ever happening? That was why I could not comfortably watch Gaslight.
So, I wasn’t exactly surprised the next Monday night when Mama breezed into my kitchen just before dusk, all smiles and sweetness. She didn’t bother to knock, but why would she? It was only my house. She and Grandma Ruthie had this whole thing about the “doors of River Oaks never being closed to an Early.”
I had to get some thicker doors.
Fortunately, I had woken up insanely early when Fitz howled at the approach of some Jehovah’s Witnesses. That avoided the “Why are you sleeping through the afternoon?” questions. In the unfortunate column, I was experimenting with a synthetic-blood breakfast smoothie. I had a combination of Faux Type O, protein powder, Undying Health vitamin solution, iron supplements, a frozen pink-lemonade mixer, and orange juice in my blender. I was putting the blood back into the fridge when she walked in. I snapped the door shut and dropped a dish towel over my copy of the Guide for the Newly Undead.
“Hi, Mama. What—what are you doing here?”
“Do I need a reason to drop by?” Mama asked, peering into the blender. “What are you making?”
“It’s a health shake,” I said, hitting the frappe button before she noticed the streaks of red. The resulting mixture was a garish vermillion that practically screamed, “There’s fake blood in here!”
Mama pinched my cheek as the blender whirred. “Honey, you might want to think about a new shade of makeup. This one makes you look awfully pale. You know, your cousin Junie just started doing Mary Kay. She could come over and show you how to make yourself up properly. She’s been looking for someone to practice her at-home demonstrations on.”
“I don’t think I want makeup tips from a day-shift dancer at the Booby Hatch.” I shook my head as I let the blender grind to halt. “But thanks.”
Mama ignored me in her special way as I poured some smoothie into a glass. “Your daddy mentioned you turned down pizza the other night. You’re not going on some weird vegetarian diet, are you? I don’t want you going anemic on me. It would explain why you’re so pasty.”
I laughed. “No, I’m definitely not a vegetarian. This is very good for me. Lots of vitamins, minerals, see?” I took a big sip. “Mmmm.”
Mama arched a brow and took the glass and sniffed.
“Mama, I wouldn’t—”
Before I could stop her, she’d brought the glass to her lips and taken a sip. All right, I probably could have stopped her with my lightning-fast reflexes. But I kind of wanted to see if she would actually do it. There was nothing in there that could hurt her.
Fine, fine, I let my mother drink fake blood. I was going to hell.
“Oh, my, that’s awful!” she said, gagging as she swallowed.
“There’s a lot of iron in it,” I said, taking the glass back and draining its contents. “It takes a while to get used to it.”
“Well, I’ll just dump it out while you’re getting dressed,” she said, pouring the contents of the blender into the sink.
“What would I get dressed for?”
“I thought we could all go out for a nice dinner,” she said brightly, pushing me toward the den.
“We all?” I arched an eyebrow at her.
Mama marched me into the den, where my older sister and Grandma Ruthie where checking over the contents of my china cabinet.
“Oh, boy.” I sighed, prompting Grandma to bobble the little china cow she was holding. Jenny’s lip curled instinctively at the sight of me and my sloppy PJs. She was wearing pressed white linen slacks and a peach scoop-neck sweater paired with Grandma’s heirloom pearls. Pearls that had been Aunt Jettie’s until I foolishly left Grandma unsupervised during Jettie’s funeral luncheon at River Oaks.
I declined to sit across from them as they made themselves comfortable on my couch. Frankly, it was a better defensive position to have them looking up at me.
“Jane.” Grandma Ruthie sniffed, toying with her purse strap. “I haven’t seen you in so long I hardly recognize you. Have you put on a few pounds?”
Was that two or three insults in one shot? Sometimes I lost track. I offered a thin-lipped smile but said nothing. I think we can all agree this was the wisest course of action.
“Now, Mama,” my own mother warned in a tone that would ultimately do nothing to stop Grandma Ruthie.
Mama had her moments, but she was a rank amateur in terms of good old-fashioned offspring manipulation compared with my Grandma Ruthie. Guilt and passive-aggression were Grandma Ruthie’s weapons of choice, all wrapped up in pastel dress suits and a cloud of White Shoulders. Miss a Sunday dinner at her house, she developed a debilitating migraine. Go to the movies with a boy she didn’t approve of, and she ended up in the hospital with chest pains. Announce you were planning to study library science instead of elementary education, as she had planned for you, she checked herself in for exploratory surgery. All the while, she moaned from underneath her soothing gel eye mask that she “doesn’t want to be a burden” with all of her demands, but “who knows how long I have left?”
Jettie appeared near the window, surveying the little tableau we presented and grinning from ear to ear. “And it’s not even my birthday.”
Aunt Jettie danced over to the china cabinet a few feet behind Jenny and Grandma and began levitating various bric-a-brac over their heads. Fortunately, Mama was rearranging the photos on my mantel to keep hers at the forefront, so she didn’t notice. I clenched my jaw and shook my head at my ghostly great-aunt, who was making spooky “Ooooooo” noises that nobody else could hear.
Jenny, who had obviously been waiting patiently for this opportunity, was unaware of the candlestick floating over her head. She quirked her carefully painted lips (which matched her twin set) and said, “So, Mama says you haven’t gotten another job yet.”
If I corrected her and said anything about my new job, it would only prolong their visit, so I shrugged it off. “Daddy says you repainted your kitchen.”
“How are you going to pay the bills? You know, the taxes on River Oaks are coming up soon,” she said, trying her hardest to be nonchalant. “If you can’t pay them, you can always come to Kent and me for a loan.”
I narrowed my eyes at my sister. Same old Jenny. The same Jenny who refused to let me touch her pep-squad pom-poms because I’d “mess them up.” The same Jenny who picked our second cousin to be a bridesmaid over me because everyone else in her wedding party was thin and blond, and she didn’t want me to “stick out.” Well, screw the same old Jenny.
“I’d rather roll naked over broken glass and dive into a pool full of lemon juice, but thanks,” I said, smiling back. “Besides, Junie said there are some shifts opening up at the Booby Hatch. I thought I’d give that a try.”
Mama gasped and turned, prompting Jettie to drop the candlestick behind the couch with a thud.
No one noticed, because Grandma Ruthie loudly demanded, “You know what your problem is, Jane?”
“No, but if I had a couple of hours, I’m sure you’d tell me.”
“You’re too full of yourself.” She sniffed. “Always have been. I’ve never understood what you thought was so special about you—”
“Why don’t you just go get dressed, honey, and we’ll wait down here?” Mama asked, her voice desperately cheerful.
“I wasn’t finished, Sherry,” Grandma Ruthie said.
Behind her back, Aunt Jettie muttered, “The minute she’s finally ‘finished,’ that’s when we’ll know to call the undertaker.”
“Well, what about selling the house?” Jenny asked, irked that the conversation had strayed from her agenda. “You don’t need all the space to yourself. I have two growing boys. We need the room. And it’s just impractical for you to have all this room now that you’re broke.”
“I’m not selling you the house so you can raise those two wolverines you call children here.” I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, Jenny, you’re about as subtle as a sack of hammers. And I’m not broke. So just back off.”
“Jane, how about getting dressed?” Mama asked again. Her voice was desperate now. “We’ll need to hurry if we’re going to get a table.”
“Mama, I can’t. Really, I can’t.”
“And why not?” Mama cried, eyeing my pajamas, which were decorated with little goldfish. “What could be so important that you can’t drag yourself away to spend a little time with family? I haven’t seen you in weeks. And it’s not like you have a busy schedule without working.”
“I am working! OK?” I exclaimed. “I’ve had a job for almost a week now.”
Oh, crap.
“What?” Mama demanded, her face paling. “How could you not tell me you have a new job? You know how worried I am about you! How could you not do something as simple as pick up the phone to tell me you got a job? And where, if I’m allowed to ask, are you working?”
“It’s a little book boutique, very specialized, in the old downtown area. You probably haven’t seen it before.”
Mama scoffed. “Well, excuse me for not having the sophisticated tastes in books that you do.”
Jettie circled Mama, shaking her head. “You really shouldn’t have told her, Jane. It’s going to make them stay longer.”
“I know,” I ground out through clenched teeth.
“Jane! What a hurtful thing to say!” Mama exclaimed.
For a moment, I lost track of the various conversations. “Wait, what?”
“Now, I think you need to just go upstairs and get dressed.” Mama sighed, plucking at my pajama top. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to join your family for a simple meal. You know, your Grandma Ruthie only has so much time left.”
“Mama, I can’t go out with you tonight.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because I—” I looked up, in the hopes that a plausible excuse would be written on the ceiling, I suppose. Monday night—what could I be doing on a Monday night? If I said I had plans with Zeb, Mama would tell me I could see him anytime. I couldn’t say, “Date with Gabriel,” because Mama would demand to see him.
“Um, a party!” I cried, peering through the kitchen door and spotting Missy’s card stuck to my fridge. “I’ve been invited to a cocktail party tonight.”
“Who would invite you to a cocktail party?” Jenny asked, eyeing me suspiciously. Even without telepathy, I could tell what she was thinking: Who would invite me to a cocktail party but not her?
“It’s just a networking thing.” I smiled and winked at Jenny. “You know, all of the Hollow’s best and brightest young professionals, getting together, making connections, swapping numbers.”
OK, it sort of sounded like a swingers’ cocktail party when I put it like that. Jenny’s lips disappeared as if she’d eaten a persimmon, though, so it was worth it.
“Well, I’m so glad!” Mama cried, patting my back. “It’s wonderful that your new job has you socializing.”
“You know what they say about jobs that involve socializing,” Grandma Ruthie said under her breath. From behind her, Aunt Jettie slapped the back of her head. Grandma cried out and turned to look for what had hit her. I snickered. Jenny shot me an annoyed look.
This wasn’t turning out to be such a bad visit after all.
Mama turned on me, hands on hips, asking, “So, what are you going to wear?”
Oh, crap.