Such an unfortunate, desolate choice. What loving parent would choose to name their child Misery?”
I don’t consider myself a sensitive person. As a rule, I’m not opposed to people implying that I am a disappointment to my family and my species. But I do ask for one thing: that they keep that shit away from me.
And yet, here I am. With Governor Davenport. Leaning on my elbows over the balcony that overlooks the courtyard where I just got married. Biting back a sigh before explaining:
“The council.”
“Pardon?”
Gauging intoxication levels in Humans is always a struggle, but I’m fairly sure the governor is not not drunk. “You asked who gave me my name. It was the Vampyre council.”
“Not your parents?”
I shake my head. “That’s not how it works.”
“Ah. Are there . . . magic rituals involved? Sacrificial altars? Seers?”
So self-centeredly Human, the assumption that everything that’s other must be shrouded in the supernatural and the arcane. They nurse their myths and legends, in which Vampyres and Weres are creatures of magic and lore, capable of curses and mystical acts. They think us able to see the future, to fly, to make ourselves invisible. Because we’re different from them, our existence must be governed by otherworldly forces—and not simply, like theirs, by biology.
And maybe a couple of thermodynamics laws.
Serena was like that, too, when I first met her. “So crucifixes burn you?” she asked me a couple of weeks into our cohabitation, after I failed to convince her that the viscous red liquid I kept in my fridge was tomato juice.
“Only if they’re, like, very hot.”
“But you guys do hate garlic?”
I shrugged. “We don’t really eat food in general, so . . . sure?”
“And how many people have you killed?”
“Zero,” I told her, appalled. “How many people have you killed?”
“Hey, I’m Human.”
“Humans kill all the time.”
“Yeah, but indirectly. By making health insurance too expensive or stubbornly opposing gun control. You guys suck people dry to survive?”
I scoffed. “Drinking directly from a person is kinda gross and no one ever does it.” It was a bit of a lie, but at the time I wasn’t sure why. All I knew was that a few years earlier Owen and I had walked into the library to find Father latched onto the neck of Councilwoman Selamio. Owen, who’d been more precocious and less of a social pariah, had covered my eyes with his hand and insisted that the trauma would stunt our growth. He’d never explained the reason, though. “Plus, blood banks are right there. So that we don’t need to hurt Humans.” I wondered if it had more to do with the fact that killing someone would be a lot of exhausting work, what with the thrashing around, and the burying of the corpse, and the Human police potentially showing up in the middle of the day, when all we want is to crawl into a dark space.
“What about the invitation business?”
“The what?”
“You need to be invited into a room, right?” I shook my head, hating that she looked disappointed. She was funny, and direct, and a little odd in a way that made her at once awesome and approachable. I was ten, and I already liked her more than anyone I’d ever met. “Can you at least read my mind? What am I thinking about?”
“Um.” I scratched my nose. “That book you like. With the witches?”
“Not fair, I’m always thinking about that book. What number am I thinking?”
“Ah . . . seven?”
She gasped. “Misery!”
“Did I get it right?” Holy crap.
“No! I was thinking of three hundred and fifty-six. What else is a lie?”
The thing is, Humans and Weres and Vampyres might be different species, but we’re closely related. What sets us apart has less to do with the occult, and more with spontaneous genetic mutations thousands of years down the line. And, of course, the values we developed in response. A loss of a purine base here, a repositioning of a hydrogen atom there, and ta-da: Vampyres feed exclusively on blood, are wimps with the sun, and are constantly on edge about extinction; Weres are faster, stronger, (I assume) hairier, and they worship violence. But neither of us can whip out our magic wand and lift a sixty-pound suitcase on top of a rack, or find out the Powerball numbers in advance—or turn into bats.
At least, Vampyres don’t. I don’t know enough about the Weres to get offended on their behalf.
“No naming rituals,” I tell the governor. “Just a busybody council. No one wants five Madysons in the same class.” I hold for a beat. “Plus, it seemed fitting, since I did kill my mother.”
He hesitates, unsure how to react, and then lets out a nervous laugh. “Ah. Well. Still, as a name, it’s very . . .” He looks around, as if grasping for the perfect word.
Oh, fine. “Miserable?”
He finger-guns at me and I shiver, either because I hate him or because it’s starting to get way too cold for my Vampyre needs and my lace jumpsuit.
The gathering can only be defined as “a party” with lots of generosity. About one hour in, I decided that I had finally had enough. If my husband—my husband, who was on the edge of murdering me at our altar of connubial bliss because I stink—could be off somewhere discussing important matters with my father, I, too, could sneak away.
I made my way up to the mezzanine balcony to be alone. Unfortunately, the governor had the same idea, and brought along a watering can’s worth of alcohol. He decided to join me—heartbreaking—and seems intent on making conversation—a fucking cataclysm. His eyes keep straying to Maddie Garcia’s table, as though he’s trying to incinerate her ahead of her inauguration next month. I should probably join him in his resentment toward the Human governor-elect, since her choices are what made this sham of a marriage necessary, but I cannot help admiring the way she has been expertly avoiding my father. She’s definitely a smart woman. Unlike the bumbling idiot next to me.
“It’s very brave, what you’re doing, Miss Lark,” he tells me, patting my shoulder. He must have misplaced the memo: Vampyres don’t touch. “Very brave, in the face of great danger.”
“Hmm.” The reception is going as cartoonishly poorly as expected. Weres and Vampyres are seated at tables on opposite sides of the hall, exchanging hostile looks while the most unappreciated viola player in the world spends some quality time with Rachmaninoff. The Weres and the few Human guests have been served food prepared by a world-renowned chef, and make a valiant attempt at eating it despite the ugly atmosphere. “Revolting,” I overheard the daughter of Councilman Ross say in the Tongue as I slunk up here. “Unsocialized beasts. They feed in public, shit in public, fuck in public.” I refrained from pointing out that it’s called “eating,” and that the last two are illegal in the Human world. I’m just glad I managed to explain to the planner that one doesn’t sip blood at a party, that feeding is a private act for Vampyres, never communal or recreational, and that no, serving blood cocktails with little umbrellas in them was not a “fun idea.” When she asked, “What will the Vampyres do, while the Weres eat?” I guessed “Glare at them?” Boy, was I right.
“Especially brave, you are.” The governor takes another swig. “What an interesting life you have led. A Vampyre raised among Humans. The famous Collateral. The Weres, it seems to me, have two reasons to hate you.”
I distractedly run my tongue over my regrown fangs, wondering if a fight will break out. The hatred in the room is thick, suffocating. The Human guards, too, sharkle around, a little too eager to strike, curb, defend. A gust of wind could make this coiling tension snap.
“Then again, Moreland gave up a lot for this arrangement. The Collateral they’re sending . . . The councilman’s daughter for the Alpha’s mate. Sounds like poetry, right?”
My head whips around. The Governor’s eyes are glazed. “The Alpha’s what?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned her. It’s a secret, of course, but . . .” He chuckles deep in his throat and tips his glass at me.