CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Wow, I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone eat so much,” Miriam says, sitting across from me at the Indian restaurant—same place I went earlier, with mirrored walls, Formica tabletops, and sitar music piping over a loudspeaker. It’s a hole in the wall, but the food is served fast and hotter than hell. Just my speed.
“It takes a lot to maintain this fine physique,” I reply, spearing a piece of fried tofu.
Her eyes go to my snug black T-shirt and chest. For the record, it is a fine chest. Before I was turned, I happened to be a fan of pugilism and hurling to goals, now known as barefisted boxing and rugby. The boxing I did for money since I had a sour temper and my parents only sent enough money to pay for the basics: tuition, room, and board. The rugby I did to build my strength for the boxing. Plus, any opportunity to break a few arms pleased me. The wealthy aristocrats—sons of earls, dukes, and the like—looked down upon those of us without “proper breeding,” but my temper and strength made me a decent prizefighter, and given the proclivity of my classmates to gamble, I made a lot of money. In hindsight, I see that all of it made me tough and one of the few to survive this long. Book smarts didn’t hurt, but my will to fight is what has kept me alive.
“Yes, well…” Miriam pokes at the food on her plate. “I see you spend a lot of time maintaining your body.” Her voice rises on the last syllable, and it’s followed by a hard swallow.
Sure. Sure. Look all you want, you…bond harlot! You cannot have it. “I am sure Jeremy’s body is just as fine.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” I growl.
“Like his name is a bad word.”
“Did I? So sorry.” I grunt and return to my food. My mouth is on fire and blisters are forming on my lips. I thank the chilies for helping ease my mental hardship.
Miriam drops her fork on the plate with a clank. “Mike, what’s going on? I told you I’m in a relationship, but even if I weren’t, I’m almost a decade older than you, not to mention you’re seeing Lula. So why all this drama?”
“Michael. My name is Michael. And there is no drama.” My inner vampire flares with rage. She might as well have called me a spoiled little princess.
Calm yourself, man. She doesn’t understand. She is not one of us. Nor would I ever want that for her even if such a move could override every connection she’s ever had with anyone, including Jeremy.
Yes, I said it, all right? It’s a horrible thing to allow inside my thoughts, but turning her would make her mine forever. I would be her maker, her friend, her guide, her everything for as long as we both exist. No different than Clive was to me or Lula. Lucky for Miriam, I have never turned anyone, and I wouldn’t dare. Who would do that to someone they esteem, love, or respect unless absolutely necessary? I’ll tell you who: a monster. When Clive made me and Lula, he knew we’d die if he did not intervene. His decision wasn’t based on selfishness.
I think the words and instantly see how selfish I am being right now; however, it was one thing knowing she has a boyfriend—human and no real threat to me. But sharing her with another vampire? It’s not going to work.
“Sorry,” I say and gesture for the check. “I’m a bit riled up after today.”
“I’m sure you are. It’s got to be taking a lot out of you to forgive Lula like that.”
I wipe my mouth with my napkin and look at her inquisitively.
“Sorry. I saw you two having a moment through the peephole in your door.” She holds up her hands. “Not that I was spying, but you said you’d be right back, and you guys were gone for a long time.”
“It’s fine. And I’m sorry. I’m not usually this volatile.”
She smirks and then stabs a piece of curried tomato on her plate.
“What?” I ask.
“I love that you use real words—like volatile and bourgeoisie instead of emotional and middle class.”
All part of this glorious, manly, vampire package, but you shall never know. “Shall we go?”
“Where?” she asks.
“Back to your place.”
“Is it safe?”
“My psychic powers say yes,” I say dryly.
Her oval face contorts. “You’re really weirding me out with all that.”
“You are not the first. Nor shall you be the last.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?” Her eyes narrow on my face.
“I cannot say; you’re the one feeling it.”
“All right.” She takes a deep breath. “Ever since you’ve showed up, strange things are happening.”
“I think your life was heading for strange long before you met me,” I mumble.
“What does that mean?”
“You tell me,” I reply.
“Michael! Stop!” She slaps the table. “Enough with the aloof comebacks. Enough with the games and lies! Tell me what the hell is going on, or I will walk right out that door and this—” she toggles her finger between us “—is over.”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
Her nostrils flare, and she leans towards me. “Mother-effer, I am a mother-effing librarian. Which means I’m well-read and no dummy. So cut the crap.”
I look over at this tiny woman, half my size and weight, with a fraction of my age and years of wisdom, and I know I must decide. She is far too smart to deceive forever. If that were true, I wouldn’t think so highly of her.
I clear my throat and speak in a deep, quiet voice so only she can hear. “You are right, Miriam. And I apologize for the ruse.” I stare at her and pray she feels my sincerity. “Nothing is as it seems. I am not who I’ve told you. The facts surrounding you, the library, and your personal life are not what you think. But I ask you to trust me and to trust your instincts that I am doing everything I can to keep you safe.”
“Why should I trust you?” she snarls.
I exhale slowly. “Because I saved your life,” I whisper. “It was me who stopped that man. I killed him.”
She pushes back into her seat, and neither one of us cares about the few customers watching our drama from across the room.
Miriam stares into her lap, and I don’t feel a thing—not from her or me.
“Say something, Miriam.”
She exhales.
“Miriam?” I prod.
“I-I don’t know why you hid that, Michael. And I don’t know what’s really going on, but I can’t trust you. I don’t want to see you again,” she mutters. “Not ever. Please stay away.”
“Miriam.”
She rises to her feet. “Goodbye, Michael.”
I rise, too, and watch Miriam walk out of the restaurant, unsure if her dismissal is a blessing or a curse. I’ve never cared for anyone at the cellular level. And I’ve never been so afraid of permitting another person to have so much control over my world.
I drop my head into my hands. “What am I doing?”
I enter my broom closet, expecting witches and ghouls, only to find Lula watching TV on her tablet, scarfing down a plate of chocolate chip cookies, wearing nothing but one of my large white T-shirts. Nothing on the bottom. Except the plate.
I’ve seen Lula in the buff a number of times, but I cannot lie. Tonight I feel things I haven’t felt before. I am filled with fury, emotion, and distress.
I grab a blazer hanging over the side of the couch and toss it at her. “Cover yourself.”
Her jaw drops mid-crunch. “I am covered.” She points to her lap. “See? Cookie shield. And I bought you sheets and a blanket to cover your foldout. You’re welcome.” She points to a red comforter sitting on the floor in a clear plastic bag with a zipper. One of the sheets is already thrown over the couch. A good idea since her bare butt is parked on the dirty old thing.
“Thanks for covering the couch. Now cover yourself like I said,” I growl.
With a cold, defiant stare, she slides my jacket under her plate and over her lap.
I walk to the kitchen sink and spot Clive’s soup can sitting on the counter. “What are you doing with this?” I grab it and roar. It had been stashed away in my suitcase.
“Obviously nothing.” She glares. “You don’t have a can opener, and I didn’t want to dent a fang. But since when did you get all prudish? Or possessive over chicken soup?”
“I don’t want to see you naked, and this is not soup! It’s what’s left of the only person who has ever truly loved me, and you are not to touch it!”
The expression in Lula’s eyes turns from annoyed to devastated. I am horrified by the ugliness erupting from my mouth.
I turn, set down the can, and run the hot water. I want to splash my face, but the sound only reminds me of my life—I can’t seem to contain a damned thing, and it’s all rushing away from me. Four hundred years of discipline and struggle coming undone. Why? Because Clive died? Does this mean I never had control? Was he all that held me together?
“I don’t know what to do, Lula. It’s breaking me. And I am unsure what’s harder to accept: that he’s gone or that he never prepared me for this.”
Lula comes up behind me and slides her arms around my waist, pressing her warm cheek to my back. She’s fed tonight, and I am so distraught that I don’t ask who or where. At this point I’m hanging by a thread.
“I almost told Miriam about us tonight.” My fingers press into the rusty steel sink. “I almost threw away centuries of commitments, loyalty, and life to appease a three-day relationship. I am so weak. So goddamned weak.”
Lula squeezes tighter around my midriff. “It’s okay, Michael,” she whispers. “We will get through this.”
“I don’t know if I can. When he died, he took so much of me with him, and I wasn’t ready.” I cannot believe I’m saying any of this out loud. I am a man, strong and fearless, but above all, I am a vampire. We simply do not say such things, even if we feel them.
Lula pulls back and turns me to face her. When I stare down into her brown eyes, I see her letting go, dropping her guard. I see her pain and torment, but then I see something I don’t expect. Love?
“None of that is for Clive, is it?” I say quietly.
She shakes her head slowly, the tears trickling from her eyes. “No, Michael. He made me, but he made me for you. The pain I feel is for you.”
Gravity slides away, and I’m suddenly drifting, weightless, everything escaping into an empty vacuum, leaving me with only my emotions. Clive made Lula for me? He never said anything, yet I think in the back of my mind I always knew. He wanted to be sure I would never be alone because he understood I would never make anyone. He knew I would never allow myself to care for another enough to turn them on my own.
And he knew I have my reasons—something I have not spoken of for three hundred years.
I lower my forehead and press it to hers, cupping my hands to her warm cheeks. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Would it have mattered?” she whispers.
“I do not know.” I just don’t.
“Then at least make love to me. I’ve waited so long. So it’s now or never, and if never, then you have to set me free, Michael.”
I suddenly realize that all along, she has been patiently hoping for me to change, to let others into my heart. Because the truth is that when I said vampires do not love, it was another lie.
I do not love. I do not feel passion.
I care, I am loyal, but no one ever truly gets in. Not even Clive. And it shames me to admit it. I cared deeply for him, but I never returned the love he gave for four hundred years. My affection came in the form of respect and loyalty. But never love.
This is why Miriam has upset Lula so much. She’s waited so long for my heart to thaw, and when I finally feel something, it isn’t for her—the woman who has been loyal and patient for over two centuries.
Once I realize all this, I cannot stop the flood of emotions from crashing down—the loss of my best friend, the need to comfort Lula, my anger and frustration over bonding myself with a woman who—for as long as she lives—will never feel a thing for me unless I turn her, which is something I’m unwilling to do. It’s too much for me.
I nod and hover my lips over Lula’s. “If this is what you want.”
She closes the gap and presses her lips to mine, and they are warm, sweet, and welcoming. I let go and give everything I can to Lula, though there isn’t anything worthwhile left. Just a shell.