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It seemed to be my turn to talk. “Can I help you?”
“Gabriel sent me.”
“For…?” If Gabriel sent someone to give me an after-undeath Goth makeover, I was going to be seriously pissed. Andrea stood and unknotted the silk scarf at her throat. Even in the dark, I could make out the healing bite marks, the purpling bruises.
“Wait, are you a pet?”
More important, was she Gabriel’s pet?
She laughed, a soft, silky whisper that made me feel frizzled and oafish. “I’m a freelance blood surrogate. I have friends in the vampire community. Friends who enjoy my company and my discretion.”
I remained silent. How exactly was that different?
“I’m AB negative, so I’m a popular selection,” she added.
“That’s a rare blood type. Only one percent of the population has it, ” I blurted. “Bet you’re popular down at the Red Cross.”
“Yes, I’m sort of a delicacy,” she said, smiling. “How did you know that?”
“The brain may die, but my compulsion for useless trivia lives on,” I said, ignoring the frown that marred her alabaster brow.
Andrea was clearly unaccustomed to not being jumped the second a vampire spied her snowy swanlike neck. “Gabriel said you were nervous about feeding from a human. So he sent me over to help you through it. I think he ’s worried about you, to be honest. It’s kind of sweet.”
I rattled my keys not so subtly and motioned toward my front door. “I’d really rather not.”
Andrea was even less accustomed to being turned down flat. Suddenly awkward, she strode toward me, her gait unsteady.
“It’s OK, I want you to. I enjoy it.”
I heaved my groceries onto the hall table and closed the door. Even without my ghost aunt lurking about, I didn ’t want this conversation happening anywhere near my home. It was just unseemly. If I could have found a polite way to heave this woman off my porch, I would have. Damn Mama and her hereditary devotion to hospitality. “Look, Andrea, I haven’t completely decided where I stand on the feeding-on-humans issue. What’s the vampire equivalent of a vegan?”>Even at this hour, I was nervous to be venturing out into public for the first time as a vampire. Despite living there for most of my life, I’d never felt I was part of the Hollow. I was accepted, but I didn’t belong. I loved the people there, but I knew I wasn’t like them. From high school on, I knew I’d never be happy following in my mama’s footsteps, marrying some nice boy she picked for me, hauling our kids to basketball practice after school and church every Sunday, making Velveeta -based casseroles for pot-luck barbecues with his fishing buddies. I was different. Not better, just different. I read books that didn ’t have Danielle Steele’s airbrushed face smiling out from the back cover. I didn ’t consider Panda Express to be exotic cuisine. I honestly did not care whether the Half-Moon Howlers made it to the regional championships.
I briefly entertained the idea of moving after college, but it seemed wrong somehow. Every time I looked at jobs in other states, I got this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if the planet were tilting off its axis. So I stayed, because this was my place in the world.
My weird tendencies were lovingly tolerated by kith and kin, who—with the exception of Aunt Jettie—figured I’d eventually
“grow out of it.” And when I didn’t, they made a hobby of worrying about me. When would I meet a nice boy and settle down?
When would I stop working so much? Why did I seem so uninterested in the things that mattered so much to them? I ended up a permanent fixture on the prayer list of the Half-Moon Hollow Baptist Church, where Mama had simply written “Jane Jameson—
Needs guidance.” Every time a member of Mama’s congregation saw me at the library, she pinched my cheeks and told me she was praying for me.
It was a little vexing, certainly annoying, but I knew it came from a loving place. These were people who saw me play a sheep in the Christmas pageant for five years running. They sent me care packages when I was taking college exams. They stood by me and helped me through Aunt Jettie’s funeral. Now, for the first time, I was afraid of seeing my neighbors, my family. It was only a matter of time before they found out about me. I couldn’t survive on sunscreen and my wits, such as they were.
In Half-Moon Hollow, vampires still occasionally died in “accidental” fires or falls on handy wooden objects. That’s why few local vampires had come out of the coffin, so to speak. People stopped talking when the new vampire ’s parents walked into the room. Their families were frozen out of their churches, their clubs. Friends stopped calling. And eventually, the vampire either left town or succumbed to injuries sustained during a tragic “drapery malfunction.” But I wasn’t going to leave the Hollow. I didn’t care if Grandma Ruthie got kicked out of her bridge club. I didn ’t care if I got funny looks at the grocery store. I wasn’t leaving my home, the only place I knew. I could only hope my friends and neighbors were rational enough not to go the pitchfork -and-torch route. But even if they did, I was pretty sure I could outrun them.
I wandered the food aisles out of habit and got a little depressed at all the foods I couldn ’t eat anymore. I had the store to myself, apart from the lethargic stockers replenishing the shelves. They didn ’t make eye contact, but I think that was more of an
“I’m pissed off at the world because I’m stacking cases of adult diapers at two A.M.” thing than anything to do with me.
I forced myself to walk away from the food when I found myself tearing up over a box of Moon Pies. Fixating on delicious regional snack cakes that you can’t digest anymore cannot be good for one’s mental health.
The “special dietary needs” aisle was hidden in the back, between the health and beauty aids and the gardening section. I turned the corner of the feminine-products aisle, thankful that was something I’d never have to deal with again, and found a teeming hive of vampire activity.
“So, here’s where all the customers are,” I murmured, watching as a vampire lady compared the labels of Fang -Brite Fluoride Wash versus Strong Bite Enamel Strengthener. Farther down the aisle, a vampire couple argued over whether they’d had Basic Red Synthetic Plasma for dinner too many times in the last few months. An older vampire gentleman invested in some lubricating ointment I didn’t want to think about until I was several centuries older.
I’d never ventured down this aisle before, because, frankly, it just had never occurred to me. As a human, my shopping trips usually focused on getting in and out of the store as quickly as possible before Fitz destroyed the house in search of Milk -Bones.
Plus, the stigma attached to those who were seen shopping in the vamp aisle made it about as desirable as openly perusing hemorrhoid medications on a busy Saturday afternoon. But no one even took notice of me here. Much like humans, the vampire shoppers seemed to be “in the zone,” zeroed in on what they needed so they could get out and get back to their lairs.
