Page 7 of Nosfer-Meet You

I tilt my head as I watch Juliette busy herself with a crochet project she’s pulled out from underneath her blankets. So that’s what she was looking for, I guess.

“What are you making?” I ask.

Juliette flicks her gaze up at mine and shrugs. “Mittens.”

Gloves, huh? My gaze narrows as I stare at the oddly shaped black yarn. “Oh, baby girl … if you’re trying to make a pair of gloves, I think you’re going about it wrong. Gloves have fingers, right?” I point at her project and let out a small laugh. But Juliette sends me a look that says she’s about to stab me in the jugular with her knitting needles.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I just like to joke around. It’s not serious.”

“Mittens. They’re different from gloves. They don’t have fingers, imbecile.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest and snort. “I’m pretty sure they do, but do you, I guess,” I say with a grin.

Juliette isn’t smiling back. She just stares at me with that cold, crimson stare of hers. If looks could kill, as they say. I’m not usually into bald women. Typically, I find long black hair super hot. I love goth girls as much as the next person, but … there’s something there, beneath the death and decay that almost seems … kind of pretty about Juliette.

Whatever, it’s probably the Stockholm Syndrome already setting in. I’m not used to sitting still for more than ten minutes at a time, so this has been a pretty painful experience.

“You know, I always thought the Nosferatu were supposed to be evil,” I say. “You know how, according to the stories, they ransacked countless villages and cities and murdered everything and everyone in a super metal gore fest?”

The stories make for some pretty sick movies, not gonna lie. And the special effects nowadays are so good that it actually looks like someone’s getting hacked in half on the screen. So cool. But Juliette doesn’t act like a Nosferatu should. Doesn’t look like a depraved monster with uncontrollable bloodlust.

If anything, she’s been a pretty gracious host. I pull my knees into my chest as we fall into silence again. Then she starts humming. It’s a melody I don’t recognize, which is surprising considering I know a lot about music. She knits and hums, and I find myself smiling while I listen.

“That’s pretty. What is it?” I ask.

She looks up at me and shrugs again. “’Non, je ne regrette rien.’”

“Oh,” I say, as though what she said totally made sense. It didn’t. I’m at a loss, here, as far as our next steps are concerned. I guess I could always just … leave. But then what? Get staked by the Helsings? I might need to be here for a couple of days, at most.

“Thank you for saving my life,” I say.

She looks up from her knitting and nods. “You’re welcome.”

I’m about to say something else when my stomach rumbles. Loudly. Embarrassed, I clap my hands over my gut and laugh nervously. When I was alive, I suffered from generalized anxiety disorder and unfortunately that followed me all the way into undeath, stomach pains and all. Could be worse. I once knew a guy who was turned that retained his IBS into undeath. Our existence could be such a joke sometimes. “Shit. Uh, sorry. Guess I forgot to eat before I had to make a daring escape,” I say, smiling.

Unsurprisingly, Juliette doesn’t smile or acknowledge my joke. Instead, she puts her knitting down and stands up. Then she grabs a threadbare black hoodie from her cot and throws it on. She pulls the hood over her head and makes her way out of the “salon.”

I catch myself from grinning ear to ear at the sight of her, because the hoodie is enormous on her. Cute. Focus, Scotty. Focus. You can admire the cute pixie girl later.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Hunting,” she says.

Yeah, no. There’s no way I’m getting a woman to hunt for me. I’ve never been one of those macho-types, but even I have my limits, and allowing this teensy wisp of a woman to get me my dinner is one of them. I rise to my feet and hurry through the tunnels to catch up with her.

“Hey,” I call to her, but she doesn’t look back at me. She continues walking at a fast clip, and I struggle to keep up while also watching where I step. “Hey. Juliette. Stop. Don’t … don’t do this. I’m fine. I can wait.”

Juliette approaches the rusty metal ladder on the far side of the wall and places her foot on the lowest rung. “Stay here. I won’t be long,” she says calmly. But something about this doesn’t feel right. What if she’s seen? What if the Helsings get her? I’ll have no way of knowing. I grab on to her elbow as she ascends the ladder, and she turns to bare her fangs at me.

“Yeah. You’re very scary. Big, bad Juliette. I get it,” I deadpan. “But let me come with you, at the very least. I can help.”

Juliette stares at me like I just suggested we go out for karaoke. Which, honestly, might help this girl loosen up. I wonder what her go-to song would be.

“It’s too dangerous,” she says. “Leave it to me.”

“Yeah, our entire existence is dangerous, sweetheart,” I say. She bares her fangs at me again, only this time she adds a convincing hiss that makes me take a step back. “Seriously, Juli. I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.”

Juliette makes a strange, garbled little sound that’s almost … cute. And then she blinks. “Juli?”