The Dangers of Dating a Rebound Vampire (22 page)

I closed my eyes and slipped my hand over my eyes, ignoring the painful tug of my IVs.

“They actually have forms to fill out when one employee exsanguinates another?”

“Yes, they do.” I felt the mattress dip under Iris's weight as she climbed into bed with me. I kept my eyes closed, even as she rested her chin on my shoulder. I just couldn't stand to see the “I told you so” face. “So Cal says, please don't date that vampire. And you think the reasonable response is to immediately date that vampire.”

“Yes.”

“So, do you have any questions for me?” Iris asked. “Dating a vampire can be confusing. There are differences in your schedule and diet and attitudes toward sex.”

“Iris.”

“You may have noticed, the biting, it can be really uncomfortable,” she said. “We do that a lot. I mean, every time we have sex. There is a lot of biting. It's expected.”

“You are not going to scare me off of dating a vampire. Jerk.”

She tipped her head carefully against my shoulder. “This isn't what I wanted for you. But I shouldn't have tried to push a normal life on you, Gigi.”

“I'll be OK, Iris. Really.”

Rising onto her side, she cradled my cheek in her hand. “I just need to know, why are you risking so much to be with someone who could hurt you? Who
has
hurt you?”

“Why did you risk so much to be with Cal? You could have lost custody of me. You could have been rejected by the few living people in the Hollow we had ties to. Because you loved him—overwhelming, crazy, stupid love, completely free of logic and occasionally pants. I used to watch you guys and think, I want that. I want the kind of love that makes you forget what's good for you or what makes sense. With Ben, I liked him a lot, and he made sense, and he was good for me, but there was no . . . spark, you know? And I know that rational people say the spark is a myth, and you shouldn't base important decisions on gut feelings that could be hormones and/or intestinal distress. But I believe in it, because
you
have it. So basically, you have no one to blame . . . because I learned it from watching you.”

“Don't use logic and precedent against me.” Iris sighed. “It's just unfair.”

•   •   •

I was released from the
“hospital” into Iris and Cal's care. Nearly losing all of my blood had merited me three days' sick leave, most of which I spent sleeping in a chaise longue in the backyard to soak up some sun. I didn't want to compound my already bizarre health problems with a case of rickets. I kept track of my team's work through e-mail, but I wasn't allowed to come near the office until I was cleared by Nola.

A strange sense of quiet hung over the house, as almost every vampire man in my life seemed to be avoiding me. Cal had a pretty hard time speaking to me, but it had more to do with his own guilt about bringing Nik into my life than with being angry with me. Likewise, Jamie was avoiding my calls. Jane said that he was having trouble processing what Ophelia had done and his role in it. She assured me that he'd be back to annoying me as soon as he “pulled his head out of his butt.”

And Nik was on complete radio silence. He didn't call. He didn't visit. He didn't even send a note. It was as if he'd never existed. Every time I spoke his name, everybody clammed up and avoided eye contact.

When I was really low, the old fear that maybe I'd imagined the whole thing came back. I wondered if my “hospitalization” had actually been a trip to a mental-health facility. I was sitting on my front porch after sunset, drinking orange juice and trying to figure out how exactly one asked one's sister, “Hey, you would tell me if I'd hallucinated a vampire boyfriend, right?” when Nik stepped out of the shadows of our yard and walked up our front steps.

For a hallucination, he looked . . . well, he looked like hell. Pale and haggard and about as well groomed as walk-of-shame Ophelia. I stared at him. He stared right back, but his eyes were their normal color, so I wasn't worried about a second round of draining. I had so many things I wanted to ask him. Where had he been? Why hadn't he come to see me before now? What the hell was he thinking? But instead, what came out of my mouth was “Are you still cursed?”

He seemed caught off-guard by the query and nodded. “I had Nola look me over. She says the signature is still there.”

My heart sank. All of that blood down the drain for nothing. My experiment had failed.

“I am leaving,” he said. “After I meet with Council representatives, I am leaving the Hollow, and you will not hear from me again.”

My mouth fell open, and I really hated making such a stupid face at a moment like this. “What are you talking about? Ophelia says that if you do that, you'll go crazy. You'll forget about me, you'll forget everything, until you aren't you anymore.”

“It is for your own safety, Gigi.”

“Don't—don't you do that. Don't try to tell me what's for my own good. Or that you're trying to protect me or any bullshit like that. You don't get to make decisions like this for me. You don't get to just decide to walk away.”

“Well, you do not get to decide that we are in a relationship.”

“Is this because of the sacrifice thing?” I asked. “You think if you give me up, that will break the curse?”

“It does not matter,” he said. “Either way, you will be safe, and that is all that matters.”

“How can you say that? How can you say it doesn't matter? Can't you pick another sacrifice? How about a virgin? We can sacrifice a virgin. But maybe Jane can find some really clever way to go about it, and we can just use olive oil. Extra virgin.”

“No.”

I gritted my teeth and tried to control the vertigo making my head spin. He was leaving me. He sounded pretty determined about it, too. This didn't sound like a decision he wanted me to talk him out of. This wasn't a test to prove how much I cared about him. He was leaving me, and all I would have left would be a few shreds of dignity. So I took a deep breath and nodded. “OK. I'm not going to go on some crazy, depressive, self-destructive bent because you've decided to give up. Screw you and your masochistic, self-sacrificing, tragic-hero bullshit. If you want to leave, go. I won't try to stop you.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I am glad you are handling this so well, and with such maturity.”

“I'm handling it a lot better than the five-hundred-year-old vampire, so I think I'm ahead of the game,” I sniped, standing up from the porch swing. I stuck out my hand to shake his.

Nik nodded and pulled me into a searing kiss, twice as devastating as the one he'd given me that first night by the jewelry store. I locked my knees to keep them from buckling under me. I kept my arms stick-straight at my side. He pulled away and kissed me on the forehead.

“Good luck to you.” I said, with the best stiff upper lip I could manage. Collin would have been very proud.

He kissed both of my cheeks. “Good-bye, Gigi.”

“Good-bye, Nik.” I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight, knowing that when I opened them, he'd be gone.

I hated being right.

13

If you did not bring the blood that's in the office fridge, do not touch the blood that's in the office fridge.

—The Office After Dark: A Guide to Maintaining a Safe, Productive Vampire Workplace

T
he summer was coming to a close, and not quickly enough.

I refused to mope. I would not miss work, or meals, or sleep, even if it meant hitting myself over the head with a tack hammer to knock myself unconscious. I put the moonstone earrings into a box and gave them to Cal for safekeeping. I didn't trust myself not to throw them into the Ohio River. I reported to work every afternoon. I did my usual exemplary programming. I ignored the rumors about Ophelia and what had led to her suspension. (The most popular theory was that she was accused of draining an entire pet store full of puppies.) I ignored Marty, who was back to leaving candy on my desk and asking me out on dates that wouldn't happen.

It sucked beyond the telling of it. I felt nothing. Food didn't taste the way it should. I woke up feeling as if I hadn't gotten any sleep. Nothing made me laugh. Everything just felt beige.

Taking this internship had been the worst decision I'd made since fringe bangs. My heart was broken. My relationship with my sister felt as if it was on shaky ground. It didn't look as if anyone who worked under Ophelia would be hired long-term. And Peter Crown's interim management was even less warm and cuddly than Ophelia's had been, if that could be believed. Gaunt and grumpy, Mr. Crown was far too comfortable setting up his own totalitarian regime, telling us that any and all complaints and concerns should be directed to the Department of Shut Up and Do Your Job. Margaret actually wept as she watched the cleaning crew haul Ophelia's Hello Kitty desk accessories into banker's boxes. But fortunately for our department, Mr. Crown understood next to nothing about computers, so he basically left us alone. Also, he told Margaret to stop crying with such authority that she would follow him anywhere.

I just wanted to go back to school, where I could trust most of the people around me, where I understood how things worked, where a potential mugging was my chief concern while walking across parking lots.

We were wrapping up the final phase of coding and planned to send our last batch to the regional branch for the big test that Friday. Because of Mr. Crown's lack of experience, this meant a lot of phone calls between myself and the project leader in the Chicago office. The chief advantage there was that it prevented a lot of awkward conversation with Marty.

I was unraveling emotionally. My temper seemed to be dangling on a weak string, and the slightest nudge would make it snap. I was shaky and angry and snappish with just about everybody but Iris, Cal, Aaron, and Jordan. My stomach felt as if it was roiling all day and night, and my hands trembled over the keyboard. I'd resorted to taking frequent bathroom breaks just to collect myself and maintain my composure.

On one such break, I was in the ladies' room, washing my hands, when Margaret came up behind me at the sink. She was staring at me. Hard. Clearly, she blamed me for her boss getting the heave-ho, since I had the nerve to provoke Ophelia into trying to put a magical mob hit on me and all.

Still, I smiled pleasantly, because even if I was about to engage in a bathroom catfight, I was a lady. “What can I do for you, Margaret?”

“For a start, you can stop stringing Marty along,” Margaret said. “Just say yes when he asks you out. He's such a nice guy. You should give him a chance.”

“And I don't see how that's any of your business,” I told her sharply.

Margaret grabbed my arm before I could step away. She scoffed, tucking her graying hair behind her ear. “You think you're a hot commodity because you got a vampire to pay a little attention to you? Trust me. You have a reputation around here, Gigi, and it's not good.”

“Oh, I'm sure I do. But since we're talking about damage, what did you do to Nik?” I demanded.

Margaret scowled at me. “What the hell are you talking about? Listen to what I'm telling you. You're damaged goods. No vampire is going to want you now. You're lucky
that Marty wants anything to do with you.”

I really, really wanted to hurt her. Hitting vampires was like hitting practice dummies. It was hard to hurt them, and they instantly recovered from any damage you did. Margaret, on the other hand, was human. I could injure her pretty seriously. And I found that I wanted to. Something angry and savage inside me relished the idea of breaking her bones, making her bleed. The ease with which my hands curled over hers frightened me. But still, my lips pulled back from my teeth in a snarl, and I was fully prepared to wrench her arm behind her back, when Jordan came sauntering out of the stall. She shook her purple bangs out of her face and rearranged them in the mirror, as if her coworkers weren't locked in a death grip just beside her.

“Really, ambushing a girl in the ladies' room?” she said, rolling her eyes. “That's so cliché.”

“Gigi and I were just having a personal conversation,” Margaret said in a pleasant tone. “So why don't you toddle along and try to find a hair color that occurs in nature?”

“Nah, I'm good here. I kind of want to see how this plays out.” Jordan crossed her arms over her Van Gogh's TARDIS T-shirt and leaned against the gray vanity. Margaret narrowed her eyes at her but didn't move. I tried to figure out how I could maneuver from an arm grip to a double arm pin, followed by shoving Margaret's head into the toilet, swirly-style.

But I could feel Margaret's hold on my arm loosening, as if she was losing her resolve. Jordan was making it too uncomfortable for her. It was as if Margaret had just enough nerve to confront me but not quite enough to go after two people simultaneously. Clearly, I had underestimated Jordan, who was some sort of social-engineering genius.

Finally, Margaret tossed my arm aside, huffing in disgust. “Remember what I said, Gigi.”

“Oh, I'll remember,” I snarked, as Margaret walked out of the restroom. “Thank you, Jordan, I appreciate it.”

“No problem, boss lady. I was ‘nice guy-ed' once at my school's mock UN. The representative for fake Cambodia wouldn't take no for an answer. He sent his friends after me in the ladies' room, too. Fake Switzerland was anything but neutral about the matter. She guilt-tripped the hell out of me about how I should at least ‘give him a chance,' despite the fact that I had no interest in him. Never would, but I guess that didn't matter. Have you thought about reporting Marty for harassment?”

I thought of Ms. Gibson and the multitude of insane problems she had to deal with every day, including coworkers who pulled stakes on each other and drained each other's blood. Somehow, I didn't think she would see my situation as a priority. I shook my head. “Making sad-puppy faces at me and making passive-aggressive overtures through coworkers don't violate office policy. I checked.”

“Well, if you hit the angry stage, I am in for ironic Lifetime-movie, woman-done-wrong retribution.”

“Thank you,” I told her solemnly. “I will keep that in mind.”

Jordan winked at me. “It's as close as I get to handing you a friendship bracelet.”

•   •   •

Jordan and I returned to work,
ignoring Margaret as she scowled at us from her desk. I buried myself in conference calls for the next few hours, ironing out some compatibility issues between our format and the design department's specs. I hung up, hopeful that we would be able to test this thing without glitches in the coming week so I could walk away with a clear conscience. I felt a presence over my left shoulder and rolled my eyes skyward, praying it wasn't Marty.

“Aaron and Jordan were talking about getting something to eat after work, Gladiola. Do you want to join us?”

Dang it.

I swiveled my chair around and found Marty standing just a little too close to my desk. I leaned left and spotted Aaron, who was silently waving his arms and shaking his head no.

“Oh, that's sweet of you to invite me, Marty, but I have plans with my family,” I said, with the fakest smile I had ever produced. “You know, overprotective vampire siblings, they're all about the quality time.”

That's right, overprotective vampire siblings; think about that for a second, Marty.

“That's too bad,” Marty said, his eyes glittering balefully. “Maybe next time.”

I smiled. “Sure. You guys go ahead, though.” Marty turned back toward Aaron and Jordan. I mouthed “Thank you!” to them both. “You've worked hard this week; take off early. You've earned it. I just need to stick around and finish up a few calls.”

“Oh, we shouldn't,” Marty protested, as Jordan and Aaron gathered up their bags.

“Good night!” Aaron called.

Jordan lingered and mouthed “Are you OK?” behind Marty's back. I nodded and waved her off. “Good night, Jordan.”

Jordan sent a sharp look toward Marty's back. “Good night.”

“Gigi.” Marty sighed, sitting on the corner of my desk. “I know you've had a rough time lately. I can't say I didn't see it coming. Vampires aren't exactly known for their attention span in relationships.”

“You're treading close to some territory that is none of your business, Marty.”

Marty's dark brown eyes were all pity and condescension as he laid a hand on my shoulder. “I know you. I know what you want and what you need. No one is going to make you happier than I would.”

If he didn't move that hand, he was going to lose it. What was the office policy on using choke holds on coworkers?

“Look, I know you think you're in love with this vampire, but you're too good for him, too sweet. He doesn't understand you. Vampires never do. What are you going to have in common? Even if he does take you back, what's going to happen? He's going to bite you and leave you. And then where will you be? Maybe you should stop chasing after something that's never going to happen. Maybe the guy you're looking for is right in front of you.”

The violent reaction inside my head frightened me. I wanted to hit Marty until my hands bled. I wanted to scream and shout every curse word I knew at him. My office phone cord could be put to horrifying and creative use. But none of that would change Marty's mind about his feelings for me or how well he “understood” my relationship with Nik. Nothing would convince him that I was being honest with him or myself. Nonreaction was the best reaction. I just had to communicate that to my tensed muscles.

“Have a good night, Marty.” My phone rang. I gave Marty an absolutely mirthless smile and picked up the receiver, turning my back to him.

I kept myself busy with minutiae for a while. I caught up on paperwork and backed up files. I wrote a progress report for the regional manager, including glowing praise for Aaron and Jordan. I also wrote a less luminary evaluation for Marty, but I was proud that I kept my comments limited to his incompetence and inability to finish his work. At one point, I came back from the bathroom, and my usual peppermint mocha was waiting for me on my desk. Sammy must have taken pity on me on his last round through the office.

I appreciated his thoughtfulness, but it was a bit muggy for coffee, so I neglected it in favor of finishing up more paperwork. I took a few more calls from the West Coast offices about formatting issues. I was basically a model employee for almost an hour, eliminating errors wherever I could find them.

Sipping my now lukewarm coffee, I used the beta program to search Cal's name, and my name popped up as a living relative, with a footnote stating that I was also related to Iris. I entered Nola's name, and she popped up as a relative of Dick Cheney's. I tried to think of a potential negative result to prove the effectiveness. Linoge. At this point, I really had nothing to lose, even if the search came back to me. If I was going to be fired for hoarding files, I was pretty sure it would have happened by now. And I only had a few weeks left at the Council. Screw it.

I entered the name “Linoge.” And the results window came back positive.

“Sweet mother of dragons.” I gasped.

The entire Renart line showed up in the results window. Marie Renart had indeed been Pierre Linoge's eighteenth-century love bunny, and she bore him two children before he'd been turned. I guess he didn't make a very good undead boyfriend, and her alternative to breaking up with him was to send him on a memory-addled feeding rampage.

Jennifer Renart was the last living descendant of Pierre Linoge. Her last-known address was listed in Half-Moon Hollow in 1991.

Renart was local. I could find her. Why this hadn't shown up in any of the other Council records, I had no idea. And it sort of sucked that while I was trying to track down Linoge's relatives, one of my coworkers had apparently found the file in the giant pile of folders and entered the information in the archive. But now I could go to the library or the county clerk's office or the property valuator's department, and I could track this woman down. Hell, maybe Jane could use one of her not-quite-legal subscriptions to library databases to help me. It wasn't her fault the library management hadn't changed the passwords since she'd been fired.