Confessions of a Vampire's Girlfriend (9 page)

He ran his hand through his hair and looked peeved. “Yes. Is there a reason you're here?”

I stared at him, unable to look away. Okay, so I was looking a lot at his bare chest, but still, even with drooling over that, I couldn't help but wonder how he could have so much pain locked inside him, yet seem so normal on the outside. “I was looking for Imogen.”

“She's not here.”

“Yeah, I figured that out. How come you're hungry? I mean, why aren't you . . .
you know
. . . feeding?”

“I don't like fast food,” he said. I blinked. He sighed. “That was a joke. It's not as easy as just picking a person out of a crowd and guzzling, Fran. I have to be careful about whom I choose.”

“Oh, because of disease and stuff? HIV?”

“No, I'm immune to disease. I'm referring to the fact that most people would notice if their wife or sister or daughter suddenly showed up woozy and suffering from a significant blood loss. It takes longer to find several people who can provide me the amount of blood I need without leaving them with a noticeable loss.”

“Huh. I hadn't thought of that.” I bit my lip and eyed his arm. The red marks still looked like they hurt, and I knew what sort of pain he held inside him. Since I had caused him pain, I figured it was up to me to sacrifice a little blood. Besides, there was something almost . . .
intriguing
about the thought of giving him my blood. “How about me?”

His eyebrows went up. “What?”

“You could have a little snack.”

“Snack?” He looked like I had a boob sprouting out of my forehead.

“Yeah, you know, bite. Nibble.
Sink fang.
Not enough to make me woozy, but enough to tide you over until you can find someone else to . . . um . . . eat.” Just in case you're wondering, this officially qualified as the strangest conversation I'd ever had.

Ben ran his hand through his hair again. I liked the way his arm muscles moved, but I tried not to let him see me admiring them. I'm really not looking for a boyfriend. Okay, the truth is, I wouldn't know what to do with one if I had him, but I decided it was better not to dwell on that.

“Fran, I can't have your blood.”

“You can't?” Because he was mad at me? So mad he would rather sit there so hungry it hurt rather than sip a little Fran? “Oh. Okay. No problem. Forget I mentioned it.”

He rubbed his face. “It's not because I don't want to—there's nothing I'd like more than to bind us together—but that's exactly what it would mean: we would be bound together for the rest of our lives, which, incidentally, would be measured in centuries rather than decades.”

I stood at the door, part of me wanting to run screaming from the room, the other part wanting to stay and talk to him. He
looked
so normal. . . . “It would?”

He sighed and pulled the blanket up his chest a bit. “A Dark One who joins with his Beloved by taking her blood cannot feed from anyone else. They are bound to each other, together, for eternity, giving each other life.”

“Oh, you mean you'd have to . . .” I made claw fingers and gestured toward my neck with them.

He nodded.

“Right, so snacking is out. I like you and all, but I don't think I want to spend eternity with you. You don't . . . uh . . . mind me saying that, do you? You're not still mad at me?”

He frowned. He even frowned cute. Maybe I should rethink this whole no boyfriend thing. “I'm not mad at you, Fran. Why would you think I was?”

I waved a hand around vaguely. “You didn't answer me earlier, and I woke you up and all. . . .”

“I didn't answer you?”

“Yeah, after I left Absinthe, I did the weirdo psychic mind-meld thingy with you to thank you, but you didn't answer. I figured you were PO'd at me.”

He yawned into his hand. “Do it now.”

“Huh?”

“Try the weirdo psychic mind-meld thingy now.”

“Ah.”
Like this?

He just looked at me.

“Well?”

“You're not answering. If you're not going to answer you could at least have voice mail or something.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Fran, what was the last thing you did before you left Absinthe?”

I gave him moue lips. “You know, you told me to do it! I imagined I was in a sealed room where nothing could get into my mind.”

“And nothing could get out?”

I blinked at him for a second, then grinned. “Oh. I didn't think of that. How do I unseal my mind?”

“You imagined yourself protected in the room; just visualize that protection gone.”

I chewed on my lip. “Will I be able to get it back again? I don't think Absinthe is one to give up too easily. In fact, I don't know what's stopping her from reading everyone's mind who works here.” And incidentally figuring out for herself who stole the money.

He yawned again. “You can protect yourself whenever you need to. Everyone can; Absinthe can't read anyone's mind who has protected it. The first thing someone with a psychic ability learns is how to protect their mind from invasion. Didn't your mother teach you that?”

“Um . . . no.” I pictured myself opening a door to the stainless-steel room and stepping outside it.
Thanks, Ben.

“You're welcome. Is there anything else?”

“No. I'm sorry I woke you, twice. And sorry about the arm. And the whole Beloved thing. I don't imagine you're terribly happy about it, either.”

His eyes glittered blackly at me as he pulled the blanket up to his neck.

“Will you take me for a ride tonight? Mom says I can as long as I'm back by ten. I know that doesn't give you a lot of time after the sun goes down, but—”

“I'll see you at nine.”

I nodded and waited until he pulled the blanket over his head before opening the door. I left a note for Imogen on her table, then hurried out, feeling pretty good about things. Ben wasn't mad at me, and had shown me how to beat Absinthe at her own game. Mom was in a relatively happy mood with me after I agreed to do what she wanted. Tesla looked happier at his new life—the vet had given him a clean bill of health—and he even did his funny little dance-in-place step when Soren and I led him and Bruno out and put chain hobbles around their front feet so they could graze loose in the meadow without running off.

Sure, I still had all that Nancy Drewing to do, but all in all, life was starting to look up.

M
y life sucks bullfrogs. No, seriously, I mean it.

Oh, okay, maybe it's not
that
bad. But if you found yourself having to talk to a guy who not only looked like Elvis Presley, and sounded like Elvis Presley, but who actually thought he
was
Elvis Presley, wouldn't your day be a bit on the bullfrog-sucking side? Yeah. I thought so.

“Hey, there, little lady. What can the big man do for you, uh-huh?”

See? Sucky.

“Hi, Elvis. I wondered if I could talk to you for a couple of minutes.”

He did a little hip shake as he combed his big black do in front of the floor mirror he always set up outside of his trailer. Elvis was thin, a little shorter than me, and had lots and lots of thick black hair that he greased back into a puffy-fronted fifties hairdo. I can't believe guys actually wore their hair like that, but Mom says her dad used to, which is going to make me a little weird about Grandpa when I see him again.

“Sure ya can.” He did another hip shake. Elvis is very big on his hip shakes. “Pull up a chair and we'll jaw awhile.”

“I want you to tell me a little bit about demons.”

He stopped in mid-hip shake, and turned around to look at me. “Demons? Now what would a little filly like you want with a big, bad ol' demon?”

Elvis is the resident demonologist. He claims he doesn't actually raise them (which I guess is major bad news), but Mom says there's something about his aura she doesn't trust. Technically Elvis is supposed to counsel people who think they're being plagued by a demon, and provide protective talismans against further demon attacks. I guess he does a roaring trade among businessmen.

“Well, I want to know what sort of things a demon can do for you. If you raised one, that is.”

Elvis scowled and turned back to the mirror. “Your mama tell you to ask me that?”

“No, she doesn't know I'm talking to you. In fact, she'd be pretty ticked off if she knew I was. She doesn't like anything to do with the dark powers.”

He snorted and stepped back to admire himself in the mirror. “Nothin' wrong with the dark powers as long as you know how to handle them.” He turned and pointed his comb at me. “Demons ain't for little girls to play with, though. It takes a strong person to handle 'em.”

I only
just
kept from rolling my eyes at the “little girl” comment. I'm three inches taller than him! “Can you make them do whatever you want?”

Elvis slipped on a leather jacket despite the fact that it was warm out. He does a trick during Kurt and Karl's Malevolent Magick show where they materialize him in full Elvis regalia right into a glass box on the middle of the stage. Soren says he thinks it's an illusion, not real magic, but I can't figure out how they do it if it's not real. “Demons? Course you can, assuming you're strong enough. If you aren't, you'll be demon chow.”

He made snapping sounds like he was eating someone up.

“Are there any limits to what you can get a demon to do?”

“Limits?” He lit a cigarette and offered me one. I shook my head. “What kind of limits?”

“Like . . . can they go through walls? Say, into the box that you materialize into?”

He snorted and blew smoke out his nose (I hate that). “Honey, there ain't nothin' that can keep a demon out from someplace it wants into, 'cept if you were to draw a bunch of wards. Or if the walls were made of steel. They
hate
steel. Burns 'em.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, thanks a lot, Elvis. I'd better be on my way. Have to help Mom set up.”

“You're not planning on raisin' yourself a demon, now, are you?”

I held up my hand, oath style. “Nope. Wouldn't know how if I wanted to.”

“Good. Demons should be left to those who know how to handle 'em.” He turned to give himself one last look in the mirror. I reached out with my left hand (which just had the lace glove on, no latex underneath it) and gently touched his back. Latex and animal hide were the only things that could tamp down on my ability to feel things when I touched people, but I really hated the thought of filling my mind with Elvis. I was sure the dimmed version would tell me enough.

I snatched my hand back, smiling wildly as he turned around toward me. “Thanks! See you later.”

Or never, if I got my wish. I had the worst desire to go take a shower, to wash out of my mind the lewd images and thoughts about Imogen that filled Elvis's. If they had such a thing as brain shampoo, I'd be buying a truckload of it.

“What a pervert,” I said as I headed toward Imogen's tent. I was going to be sure to tell her to watch out for him—the things he was thinking about her just weren't healthy. “But at least he's a pervert who couldn't get a demon to steal the money for him. Not from a steel-lined safe.”

Imogen's tent was empty. She'd been gone all day, probably shopping in town (she loved to shop), but it wasn't like her to be away so close to opening. I glanced across the meadow. I'd moved Tesla to the small section behind the portable toilets so he could graze out of the way of the Fairegoers. Soren was brushing Bruno, getting him ready for his appearance in Peter's magic act. The sun was still barely visible through the trees, long amber and pink fingers stretching across a deepening sky. In another half hour it would be dark, and the GothFaire would spring to life. Hundreds of people would tramp through the Faire, laughing, shrieking, having body parts pierced, communicating with their dead loved ones, playing with torture devices . . . you know, the usual evening out.

I went over the mental list of people who had touched the safe. Elvis, my prime suspect, was a no-go. Imogen and Mom, I was sure, were just coincidence. Peter had no reason to rob himself (motive, the detectives call it), and Soren probably also had a legitimate reason to be putting something into the safe. Which left Karl.

I looked down the long center aisle to where Kurt and Karl were wheeling their props into the main tent. I stopped by one of the booths to get a wurst and a big pretzel, scarfing the wurst down as I walked toward the main tent.