Page 13 of Nosfer-Meet You

When she’s done, she sits down in front of me again and frowns. “It’s not fair. You should have lived a full life by now.”

I swallow the lump that’s lodged itself in my throat and nod. “Y-Yeah. I guess so. But to be honest, my life wasn’t really going anywhere. If it wasn’t a vamp that got me, it would have been something else. Drugs. Accident. Bar fight.”

Juliette frowns again. “You had no family? No friends?”

I shake my head. “My parents and I stopped getting along after I turned fourteen, and I’m not great at making friends. I’m sure you can see why.”

She goes pensive for a few moments. Then she says, “I think you are sweet. Maybe a little too enthusiastic sometimes, but still sweet.”

Sweet, but too much? I’ll take it. I grin at her and lean back against the crate, settling in for a long nap. “Thanks, doll. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Please do not call me that,” she murmurs. “You may call me Juli, though, if you wish.”

Huh. Touchy, touchy. Okay, seems I struck a nerve.

“Did someone in your life used to call you that?” I ask.

Juli looks away from me to stare at the phonograph. “My father did, yes. A very long time ago.”

I cross my arms over my chest and slump down. The blood I gorged myself on is starting to put me into a stupor, and soon I’ll be asleep. I want to ask her more questions, but trying to pull anything out of her wouldn’t be right. No, I’ll wait until she opens up on her own accord. “Juli it is, then. Well…goodnight,” I say, before letting out a yawn.

Juliette lies down in her cot and pulls the wool blanket over herself before turning to face the wall. “Goodnight, Scotty.”

Chapter 8

Scotty

HAPPY DEATH DAY

The next evening, when most of the law-abiding humans, a.k.a. the boring ones, have gone to bed, I wake to the sound of vinyl crackling and a slow dripping. It would almost be kind of nice if I weren’t in a sewer right now.

Shit. I’m still in the fucking sewers with the scary Nosferatu chick who may or may not hate me. Jury’s still out on that one, though we made decent progress yesterday morning. I sit up on the damp cloth I slept on and take in my surroundings.

Juliette sits on a crate in one of the corners with a few candles lighting her canvas. She dabs the paintbrush in a shallow dish of paint and swipes it across the canvas in gentle, fluid arcs.

Now this? This I could watch for hours, and I’m starting to understand why Bob Ross was so popular.

Juli doesn’t seem to realize I’m awake yet, because she doesn’t so much as turn around. No, this girl is locked in on the work in front of her, and I can’t help but watch in wonder as she works her magic. I wonder where she even got all the paint from? Does she go up to the surface and break into an art store after hours or something? Another thing to add to my lengthy list of questions I want to ask her, I guess.

After what feels like an eternity, she begins to sing. Softly at first, and it’s more of a hum with a few words in French weaved in.

“Pretty,” I murmur.

Juliette drops her brush on the plate and spins around, her eyes fiery and wild just like the rest of her. She bares her fangs at me until recognition settles in her gaze.

I smile and rub one of my eyes, still exhausted from the day before. “Hey. Did you forget I stayed over? Wouldn’t be the first time for me, but, uh, after the night we had, I was kind of hoping I’d left a better impression.”

Juliette retracts her fangs and wipes her mouth clean with the back of her hand. I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow.

“Old habit,” she explains, as though reading my mind. Hell, maybe she can. Maybe that’s another Nosferatu power she didn’t tell me about. Or maybe I’m just that damn readable. Who knows. “Back when I was new, my fangs would bleed for … for hours after using them. They only stopped doing that a hundred years ago.”

I continue smiling at her as I lean back on my palms, my legs outstretched in front of me. “Only a hundred years,” I parrot back. “Right. Yeah, I can understand, then.”

She narrows her eyes, and I’m suddenly struck by how … twinkly they are. Is that a thing? Can you describe eyes as twinkly? Fuck it. I’m gonna.

“You are teasing me,” she says, then runs her palms along her skirt, smoothing the wrinkles that aren’t even there. “Don’t.”

I regard her as carefully as one would any apex predator, and force myself not to look her in the eye. Instead, I look past her, at the painting. From where I’m sitting, it looks like just a bunch of black blobs, but what do I know? I’m no Van Gogh.