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Tears finally spilled over my eyelashes and down my cheeks. He hesitated, then kissed my cheek again.
I rounded the house and wiped my eyes on my sleeve. And that ’s when I learned that vampire tears have blood in them.
Bloody tears that my father saw. Great.
I pulled my car away from the house but watched from the end of the street. I watched the taillights of Jenny’s SUV fade into the distance as my family drove away.
Well, I’d finally been honest. My parents knew everything, and they’d heard it from me. Whether my family accepted it or not was up to them.
On a positive note, maybe I wouldn’t have to go to Christmas dinner that year.
22
Remember that life, or unlife, is what you make of it.
—From The Guide for the Newly Undead
I figured that if I could rescue my parents from my super-secret arch-nemesis in a battle to the death, I could face my former coworkers. Besides, I still needed Mrs. Stubblefield’s signature for my undead employment benefits.
I was obviously going to have to find another part-time job until the council unclenched and handed over my ill-gotten gains for dusting Missy. Personally, I thought they were withholding the money to teach me a life lesson in self-sufficiency and keeping my nose clean. Or something. Also, I thought it amused Ophelia to watch me squirm.
And Jenny, aware that she might never inherit River Oaks now that I was immortal, had sent me several legal notices demanding certain antiques and valuables. So, now I had legal fees to worry about.
It was a nice, clear evening, just after dusk, no worry about spontaneous combustion. Vampires live(ish) for sunsets like that.
Pressing my hands against the doors, I prayed for strength and the fortitude not to use my stealthy vampire powers to do something bad to Posey…or Posey’s stupid lunch bag.
The first thing I noticed was that the security system was turned off, meaning anybody could just walk out the library ’s front door with an unchecked book without setting off the alarm. Posey was sitting behind the front desk, flipping through a copy of Elle instead of helping the elderly patron carrying a heavy stack of Agatha Christie mysteries. Despite the fact that I did not punch her in the face on sight, she was not thrilled to see me when I sauntered up to the information desk and asked for Mrs. Stubblefield in my most syrupy-sweet voice.
“She’s not available,” huffed Posey as she turned her back on me to give the elderly patron some attention finally.
I tapped her on the shoulder.
“Well, could you please let her know that I’ll be in the special collections room, and when she has a minute, I would really appreciate just a few minutes of her time?” I cooed.
“I’ll see if she has a minute.” Posey sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Thank you so much.”
I took the long way to the special collections room via the children’s department and was greeted by utter bedlam. Outside Mrs. Stubblefield’s office, I could hear the mayor’s wife complaining about an unwarranted thirty-six-dollar late fee assigned to her account. There was a book cart parked in the middle of the reading room, covered in jumbled books. From the thick layer of dust settled on their spines, it was clear nobody cared whether they needed to be reshelved. In nonfiction, the Golightly sisters were fighting over the last available copy of The Secret. I stared in slackjawed horror at a silverfish crawling over the opened pages of the massive dictionary kept near the reference desk.
I’d had postapocalyptic nightmares like this, dreams of walking into the library and finding it ravaged, abandoned to scavengers and, possibly, zombies. Apparently, abandoning the library to Mrs. Stubblefield and her niece was not much better.
And none of this bothered me nearly as much as walking into the children’s department, which looked like Paris circa 1944. Books were scattered like dead birds across the floor, split open, their spines cracking. The stuffed Mother Goose was in an anatomically correct position with Humpty Dumpty. The bookshelf containing the baby and toddler books had collapsed and was leaning against the wall, broken and discarded. Three little girls were running around the Storytime Carpet, spiking paperback copies of Junie B.
Jones like footballs. Ten-year-old twins Jake and Josh Richards sat in the corner, furtively drawing breasts on the women in the Illustrated History books.
Seven-year-old Jimmy Tipton, who had been repeatedly warned not to bring juice to the library, was tossing prechewed Gummy Bears through the puppet theater. His mother, who had been warned not to bring Jimmy to the library, was nowhere in sight. I was prepared to let it go. To walk away. It was someone else’s problem. And then I saw Jimmy rip his juice box open and start to pour juice on the carpet. The carpet I’d installed with my own two hands.
“Stop!” I thundered in a voice not my own. It resonated inside my skull, echoing out over the children in waves. I could see everything, every page in every book. Every drop of blood coursing through the children ’s veins. Every drop of Hawaiian Punch dripping onto the carpet. “Stop what you’re doing right now!”
The children froze. Their arms fell to their sides, and they awaited orders. To think of all the time and frustration this could have saved me during Story Hours.
“This is not how I taught you to behave in the library. This is not how I taught you to treat books. I want you to erase every mark. I want you to put everything away,” I intoned. “Everything. Even if you didn’t touch it, put it in its proper place.”
The kids scrambled to do my bidding. Even the kids who didn’t know the Dewey Decimal System, or their alphabet, were shelving books. I handed Jimmy a roll of paper towels from behind the counter.
“Blot,” I told him, and marched into the special collections room.
