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I turned toward the shelf and looked for a particularly battered tome covered in red cloth. It was an estate-sale find that my dad had teased my mother shamelessly over: Metaphysical Aspects of Botanical Aromatherapy. He’d told her that no matter how much she searched, she wouldn’t find a legitimate spiritual reason to return to her hedonistic college pot-loving ways.
I prayed that he was just kidding. My mom firing up a water bong was not a mental image I needed.
I flipped to the index and looked up geranium oil. I read it to myself: Thought to affect the users primarily in matters of romance and open communication, geranium is also a powerful protectant that forms a psychic boundary between the anointed and sources of negative energy.
So, conversely, if someone didn’t want open communication with a vampire who was trying to force a connection, could geranium oil cause some sort of psychic static? Note to self, roll around in geranium oil the next time I met up with Sophie. And Jane, who had occasional psychic flashes into my mind. And Jane’s friend, the vampire Dick Cheney, because it just seemed like a good idea to give him static in any way possible.
Reaching over Cal’s head, I located a bag of Sour Worms that I’d hidden in one of those hollowed-out dummy books people typically use to hide jewelry or liquor. I perched on the opposite side of the seat and opened to the first chapter of the book, wondering what other helpful little nuggets lurked inside. Maybe there was a plant that could keep vampires from insulting or vomiting on you.
“You’re just going to sit there and read?” he asked, incredulous. “You don’t want to talk about the frightening interaction with Council officials?”
I bit a blue-and-orange gummy worm in half and shrugged. “Nah. You heard what they had to say. The only thing we learned is that the Council isn’t that great at investigating missing persons. And I’m pretty sure Ophelia knows where you are but thinks you’re safer with me. The less time I spend talking to you one-on-one, the less time you have to be a jerk. ”
Given Cal’s nauseated expression as I bit into another worm, he seemed far more concerned about my choice of candy than any offense he might be causing. “It would seem Ophelia suspects something is amiss within the Council offices, too. She wouldn’t be able to make accusations without proof,” he said. “And if she’s found to be building a case against her fellow Council members, it could cause serious political problems for her. It would seem she’s embracing willful ignorance, and we’re on our own.”
“Or she’s the one who poisoned you, and she wants you to stay put so she can come back to finish the job.”
“How do you maintain such a sunny, cheerful outlook on life?” he asked, scowling at me.
I shrugged blithely and returned to my book, reading about cedar oil’s aura-cleansing properties. “I believe in the power of positive thinking,” I told him. “I am positive that this is going to come back and bite us in the butt.”
6
No matter how much you try to protect your household’s schedule, it’s inevitable that a vampire’s presence will disrupt it. The best course of action is to make small changes over time, rather than resisting it altogether. Resistance is futile.
—The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires
Cal and I settled into an uneasy stalemate. Now that his nausea had finally eased, it was as if healing took up all of his energy. He slept, rising only to feed and then go back to the master bedroom. After the vomiting and the inappropriate touching, I didn’t have the heart to send him back to the basement. I stayed close to the house, asking Jolene to do the actual daytime running for me while I made as many arrangements as I could over the phone.
The distance I’d put between us seemed to have forced him into a slightly snarky, but polite, persona. He didn’t make inappropriate jokes, but he wasn’t exactly friendly, either. I couldn’t help but feel that we’d lost ground in terms of cordial relations.
My replacement BlackBerry arrived the next morning, heralded by a loud thump against the door. Joe Wallace, our mailman, did extra-speedy deliveries so he could finish his work early and fit in a few hours of fishing. He seemed to see “Fragile” stamps as a personal challenge.
Sipping coffee, I went outside to retrieve my dented box and immediately started to sneeze violently. I groaned, wiping at my watering eyes.
Pine pollen.
I could stand the scents and sheddings of almost every flower out there. But every spring, when the pine pollen blew so thick it formed a sickly yellow film over every standing surface, I went running for the Benadryl. It was supposed to be particularly bad this year because of high winds. I was adding allergy meds to my mental shopping list when I turned back to the door and paused. Just outside my front-porch window, there were two shoe prints outlined in yellow dust. I turned to look at the window opposite the door, and there were two more prints under it.
Had Joe tried to peek in through the windows to see if we were home for the delivery? That wasn’t like him. He generally just tossed packages against our door and ran.
I shook off the sense of foreboding that rippled up my spine. I was being silly. I had my phone back; almost 75 percent of the things in my world were right again. Shaking my head, I plugged the new phone into my bedroom charger and dialed the activation code. It rang almost immediately, a dull, robotic buzzer noise, rather than my personal ringtone, “Flight of the Bumblebee.” I was going to have to reprogram it. Frowning, I hit the call button. Before I could get the receiver to my ear, I heard, “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”
“Gigi?” Before-school volleyball practices had created an obnoxiously alert early bird in my sister. How she was able to function, much less perform coordinated acts of athleticism, at this hour had always been a mystery to me.
“You were supposed to call me!” she cried. “Days ago! Your cell’s been useless. And every time I call the house, I get the machine. Are you OK? Did he hurt you? Did he bite you?”
“No, I’m fine. I’m sorry. My schedule has been so screwed up.”
“Not good enough. Remember that time in St. Louis you caught me sneaking back into the apartment after Shelley Pearson’s party and you yelled so loud that Mr. Baker came running over because he thought you were being murdered? It’s time for payback.”
“I’m sorry, Gigi.”
“Well, why don’t you address that to 123 Suck It Lane, in care of Mr. Shushy McShoveit,” she retorted.
“Remind me why I didn’t send you to boarding school. One of the scary ones with knee socks and hazing.”
“I worry about you, too, you know,” she grumbled. “It’s not a one-way street.”
