Nice Girls Don't Live Forever (15 page)

“Maybe
you
shouldn’t go to the reunion,” I said, sorting through the day’s mail. “Should I start putting horse tranquilizers in your tea?”

As Zeb ranted on, I sifted through the day’s mail, mostly bills and publishers’ catalogues. An ivory linen paper envelope slipped out and fluttered to the counter. I stared at it for a moment, wondering if I was imagining the spidery black writing that spelled out my name and the shop address. There was no return label. The postmark was in Half-Moon Hollow.

“You OK, Janie?” Zeb asked, reaching over to jiggle my shoulder. “You’re pale. Paler than usual.”

I nodded and handed the heavy envelope to Zeb. My hands were shaking. “Could you open that for me?”

Zeb arched an eyebrow, concern stretching his mouth in a grim line. “Sure.”

I took the letter from his hands and laid it on the bar to keep it steady enough for me to read. There was no opening greeting, just cramped paragraphs crowding the elegant slip of stationery.

You don’t know who I am, but I have been watching you for a long time, Jane.

Gabriel Nightengale isn’t the man you think he is. He’s not even the vampire you think he is. Gabriel takes advantage of those who are weaker. He doesn’t care for you. He is incapable of caring for anyone but himself. Even his jealousy and possessiveness, his claims that he wants to protect you, come from his desire to own you, to keep you to himself, like a favorite toy, until he is through playing with you.

I was once like you, young and innocent. Gabriel claimed he was drawn to me because of that innocence, my goodness. He said he could follow my scent across the world, that it was part of what bonded me to him. He said he loved me. Foolishly, I thought he was exciting and dashing—a dark prince taking me away from a life of boredom, from a gilded cage of limitations and demands. He killed me. He damned me, as he has damned you.

You are nothing special. You are not different from any girl who has ever walked the earth, despite what he may have told you. And when you have served your purpose, he will grow tired of you. He will use and abandon you as he used and abandoned me.

I know where you go. I know with whom you spend your time. You seem to enjoy your little life. For your sake, for the sake of the people you care about, you should stay away from Gabriel.

A Concerned and Vigilant Friend

I looked down and saw the corner of a photo sticking out of the envelope. I tipped it and slid several photos out into my hands. I gasped as I recognized the subjects. Gabriel and I in a hotel room. The camera was obviously outside a window, but I had no idea where we were or when the picture had been taken. We were stretched out on one of the wide hotel beds, a rare moment of relaxation on the Trip from Hell. My feet were draped across Gabriel’s lap as he painted my toenails a delicate strawberry color. There was another picture of us in London as we walked toward the theater. I was wearing the red dress I’d bought just to attend a performance of
As You Like It
. There was a photo taken while we were in Rome. I was sitting at a little outdoor café, alone and looking worried, because Gabriel had just gotten up to take another “business call.” Another photo of me, this time alone on my front-porch swing, reading
New Moon
by Stephenie Meyer, a book I’d chosen in hopes of exorcising my own traumatic vampire break-up issues. The camera seemed focused on the teardrop trailing down my cheek, as if that was the whole point of the picture. The final photo featured Andrea, Jolene, and me sprawled out in my living room, watching TV.

Andrea
had
seen someone at my window that night. This person had taken pictures of us, laughing and eating junk food. They’d probably followed me out into the woods on my idiot’s errand. I realized how foolish I’d been to leave the house. This person could have doubled back to the house and hurt Andrea, hurt Jolene and her babies. My stomach twisted into a cold, watery knot. This person had followed us for months, had been privy to intimate, happy moments I wanted to keep private, had enjoyed watching me work through pain. My fangs snuck over my lip. The razor-sharp tips caught the tender flesh and made blood well into my mouth, sending my senses into overdrive. I growled.

“Janie, what’s wrong? What does it say?” While I was reading, Zeb had stepped around the bar and had an arm wrapped around me. “Bad news?”

I fought to get my temper in check, to get my emotions under control. I didn’t want to worry Zeb with this. He had enough to deal with, worrying over Jolene and the babies. Through force of will and a barrage of unappetizing imagery (basically, any episode of
CSI
), I made my fangs retract.

“No.” I blew out a breath and faked a smile as I refolded the letter over the photos and stuck them under the counter. “It’s fine. Just really persistent junk mail.”

“It doesn’t look like junk mail. What’s with all the pictures?”

“Don’t worry about it, Zeb.”

Zeb didn’t seem convinced, but then customers started coming in, and I didn’t have time to answer questions. I waited until Zeb’s back was turned to fish the letter out and read it again. Obviously, this “concerned and vigilant friend” was the same person who sent Gabriel letters in Europe. Was it the mysterious Jeanine, the woman whose name had popped up frequently on Gabriel’s cell phone in the last year? And if it was, who the hell was she? And how long ago had Gabriel “used and abandoned” her? And perhaps the most important question, what was she doing in the Hollow?

8

It’s important to remember to spend time with your family. It’s important to temper your absorption into the vampire culture with contact with the human world.

—Love Bites: A Female Vampire’s Guide to Less
Destructive Relationships

When a smell is powerful enough to wake a vampire up at noon, it’s time to call an exorcist.

The sex dreams hadn’t subsided since that horrible fight with Gabriel at the shop. In fact, they seemed to grow more intense after Gabriel’s return. In this particular dream, I was strapped into complicated Victorian underwear. Gabriel was wearing an old-fashioned cut-away tux. We were in an expensive-looking hotel room, lit by gas lamps. Still clad in his white shirtsleeves, an enthusiastic Gabriel peeled my corset away, pushed me back onto the bed, and kissed his way from the curve of my linen-covered breast to the lacy little pantaloons I was wearing. He smiled up at me, the way he used to when we made love, as if I was the most beautiful creature on the planet. I felt my human flesh grow warm and pliable under his hands. He stripped the last of my underthings away, lapping away at my core with strong, sure strokes. He nibbled and kissed until I was panting. When he finally touched the very tip of his tongue to that vital little bundle of nerves, I exploded, screaming his name as I rode wave after wave of dark, shuddering ecstasy.

And then I felt the pain. My eyes flew open. Gabriel’s fangs were sunk deep into the flesh of my thigh, twin trickles of blood flowing onto the sheets as he fed greedily. He snarled up at me, my blood dripping obscenely from his fangs. I screamed again, for entirely different reasons. And he launched himself at me, snapping his teeth against my throat and draining me. He rolled away, sated, and disappeared into the sheets. Horrified, I raised my bloodied hands and saw them turn slowly gray. They seemed to decompose before my very eyes. I was a corpse, rotting and decayed.

That certainly explained the smell.

I woke up with a start and immediately clamped my hand over my nose. As I shook off the last blood-smeared images of the dream, my stomach roiled. I had not smelled anything that foul since an eighteen-wheeler packed with live hogs overturned near my elementary school. My nostrils actually burned with the scents of decaying fish and ammonia. I sat up slowly, my body sluggish in the wake of the peaking sun. I felt as if I was swimming through molasses. I pressed a dirty sock against my nose, which frankly smelled a lot better than whatever was wafting through my house.

“Aunt Jettie!” I yelled. “Has there been a septic-tank explosion?”

Ignoring the weird cotton-wool sensation of daylight consciousness inside my head, I padded toward the stairs. The smell was getting stronger. I steadied myself and resisted a strong urge to gag. I crept downstairs and checked the bathroom to make sure there hadn’t been some sort of sewer mishap.

“Whatcha doing, honey?” Jettie asked, appearing over my shoulder as I carefully took the lid off the toilet tank. “Do you have any idea what you’re looking at?”

“Not particularly. I’m just trying to figure out where the stench of death is coming from. No offense.”

“None taken. What stench?”

“You don’t smell that?”

“I don’t smell anything. I don’t have a nose,” Aunt Jettie reminded me gently.

“Trust me, you got the better end of the deal.”

I wandered toward the front door, my eyes watering as the smell took on a new hideous note with every step. It was coming from the porch. Fitz was waiting by the door, thumping his tail on the floor because he thought I was about to let him out. Obviously, whatever was out there, Fitz was desperate to roll in it. Considering the Great Dead Skunk Caper of 2002, this was not a good sign.

I put on the Jackie O sunglasses, a heavy raincoat of Aunt Jettie’s, and a floppy straw hat and wrapped a scarf around my face. I pulled back the blackout curtains and hissed at the slap in the face even obscured noontime sunlight dealt me. I squinted through the light. I couldn’t see any dead animals or toxic waste strewn across the lawn, but it did seem to get stronger the closer I got to the window glass. I snapped the curtain shut and backed away. Fitz whined and did the “let me out to play” dance.

I gently shoved him away from the door. “Sorry, buddy, I don’t think they make doggie shampoo strong enough.”

There was no way I could leave the house to clean it up, so I was stuck. I went to the attic, the farthest point of the house away from the porch, and slept on an old velvet sofa. Well, I tossed and turned and kept a pillow clamped over my face.

When the sun finally set, I grabbed my car-wash supplies out of the garage and dragged the hose to the porch. There was a slimy, creamy yellow substance smeared on the front door, the banister, the porch swing, the railing, the boards of the porch itself. It smelled like burnt almonds and the orifice of a dead horse. Smashed against the front door was a weird-looking round hull the size of a volleyball. It looked like a spiky, greenish coconut.

“What in the name of all that’s holy is this?” I wondered, holding the shell at arm’s length.

I turned to see Zeb’s car pulling to a stop in front of the house.

“Hey, Jolene sent me over with some flyers for the next FFOTU meeting.” His head tilted at the curious object in my hand. “Where did you get—mother of God!” Zeb yelled. “What is that smell?”

“I don’t know. I think my front porch has been slimed or possibly defiled by a sea monster.” I held up my fingers to show him the buttery yuck. “I’ve been trapped in the house all day while this stuff baked in the hot sun. I just wish I knew what this thing was, so I would know which haz-mat team to call.”

A smug grin spread across Zeb’s face, and he crossed him arms and leaned back in the porch swing.

“What?” I asked. “Care to let me in on the joke?”

He examined his fingernails nonchalantly. “I’m just reveling in knowing something you don’t. So, this is what it feels like … to be the smartest person in the room. I like it. I feel all … tingly.”

“Zeb.”

“Sorry,” he said, nudging the husk with his foot. “That’s a durian. I saw it on the Travel Channel. That guy who thinks turtle gall bladders are a great lunch option swears they’re a delicacy. He did a whole segment on them for his Indonesia episode. You know, people are seriously injured, even killed, by these things every year? They fall out of the trees when they’re ripe, and
splat
. It’s like having a spiny cannonball dropped on your skull.”

Zeb sniffed. “The odor is so strong that Asian governments have banned them from subways, elevators, hotel rooms, basically any enclosed space where people can’t escape the smell.”

“You’re enjoying your position as smart guy way too much,” I told him. “So, someone brought stinky fruit all the way from Indonesia to play the world’s cruelest olfactory joke on me? How do I get rid of it? Burn down the house?”

Zeb rolled up his sleeves and held out his hands for a brush. “A little elbow grease, some borax, perhaps a nuclear device.”

“Thank you, that’s very helpful,” I said, slapping the scrubbrush into his palm.

The smell did not come out. We scrubbed for hours to deslime the porch, but apparently the wood of River Oaks is very absorbent. The project did give us quality time to spend together not talking. I resisted my natural urge to jabber and just worked. Companionable silence was sort of nice. It felt mature.