Page 3 of Nosfer-Meet You

I don’t even notice the scratching sound behind me until it’s too late. A hushed feminine voice calls out to me. “Rapediment!”

I blink, run a sweaty palm down my gaunt face, and look around. Did someone just hiss French at me?

“Rapediment!” the voice whisper-yells again. When I look to my left, I finally notice the sewer grate under the street curb. A pair of blood-red eyes blinks at me.

“Est-ce que tu comprends?” the voice asks.

I shake my head. “No. No, I don’t comprends. The fuck is⁠—”

But I’m running out of time. If I had a pulse, it’d be slamming against my ribcage right now. Instead of waiting for the Helsings to put a stake through my unbeating heart, I decide to chance it with Pennywise over here.

I scurry from my hiding spot and slide with all the finesse of a drunk punk, which is to say none at all, right into the gap. I expect to collide with my mystery savior but find myself falling several feet until I land in the cold water below.

Literal shit water. And now I’m covered in it. Lovely.

The footsteps above us plod right past the sewer grate, and I can hear the officer's muffled voices as I pull myself out of the water and onto the narrow concrete walkway. Made it just in time so they didn’t see me fall down here. Score.

I run my fingers through my piss-soaked hair and shudder. “Oh, that’s disgusting,” I mutter. “Thanks for that, though. Big help, love.”

I turn to shake the hand of the one who saved me, but recoil in horror when I come face to face with the most hideous monster I’ve ever seen. The skeletal creature before me is sallow-skinned and bald, with pointed ears and sharp teeth that mirror my own. She’s a vampire, yeah, but … also not.

This chick is also wearing some strange dress that looks lifted from a Ren fair, with tattered skirts that drag limply on the ground. Her dress’s neckline, which I don’t dare allow myself to look directly at, is perilously low, and her dark gray chest is so concave, it looks like it’s been smashed in with a mace. Her ribs are clearly visible even underneath the fabric. Fuck me, it’s a disturbing sight.

“’Ecky thump!” I cry. “The hell are you, lass?”

The woman blinks her red eyes. She must notice my obvious revulsion, because her face falls before she mutters something in what I think is French.

I rub the back of my neck and say, “Uh. Righ’ then.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Évidemment.”

Shrugging, I say, “Yeah. Sure.” I look anywhere but at her. Too ugly, even for a vamp.

The woman, if you can even call her that, clears her throat and wipes her hands on her scraps of dress. “I only speak English and French,” she explains.

I stand a bit straighter and force myself to smile at her. “Oh! ’Ow do, then? Didn’t know you spoke English. That makes things easier.”

She scowls at me. “That is what you call English? I thought you were speaking in tongues,” she says, then sniffs the air. Oof. Snooty little lass, I see. Livin’ right up to the French reputation for being little dandelions of kindness. “Your accent is loud and incomprehensible.”

Rubbing the back of my neck, I mutter, “Yeah, Yorkshire. Sorry, love. Not all of us sound like feckin’ Hugh Grant.”

She bares her fangs at me, and I wince. “Non. Je suis Juliette, not ‘love.’ Remember it. And I do not know what a ‘Hugh Grant’ is.”

Blinking, I take a step backward. Juliette? That’s a surprisingly beautiful name for such an ugly woman, but okay. Maybe she was hotter in life? Who knows? It could go either way with us. But I’ve never encountered a vampire who looked anything like this. Or one who willingly hung out in the sewers.

“Okay,” I say, shoving my hands into my jeans pockets. “Juliette, then. That’s a pretty name. Are you, uh … French?”

I cringe again at how stupid the question sounds the moment it leaves my lips. Is she French? Dude. She’s speaking French, you idiot.

Juliette, to her credit, is either too gracious to call me out on my dumbassery, or she didn’t understand me thanks to my accent. Or maybe she’s ignoring me entirely, because she simply waves me along and begins to walk down the long strip of concrete lining the sewer. I flatten my back against the wall as I follow her inch by agonizing inch, too afraid I’ll fall into the shit soup again.

“I’m Scotty, by the way. Scott Lovelace. But everyone calls me Scotty. Do you have a last name? Do you mind telling me what it is?”

Juliette lets out a long, somber sigh. Great. I’ve annoyed her again already.

“Lefebvre, if you must know,” she murmurs. “Do you always talk so much, Scotty?”

The way she says my name sounds kind of nice. She has a pretty voice, even if it doesn’t match the rest of her. “Yeah, kinda. Especially when I’m reyt nervous. So, Juliette. Where are we going?” I ask as I creep along the corridor like a crab.