Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men

“Oh, no, no,” Mr. Wainwright said. “There are many subtle levels of vampirism, of power and ability. You see, there is so much for you to learn. It’s so exciting for me to be here with you for the journey from bloodthirsty neophyte to sophisticated veteran vampire.”

“Happy to oblige,” I said, shrugging amiably. “Although technically, I’ve never been what you’d call bloodthirsty.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, dear,” he said. “But don’t you see how lucky you are? Vampires are among the few beings who trace their history as they live it. You can see the past, present, and future. You know who your great-great-grandparents, great-grandparents, and grandparents are. As your children or, in your case, nephews—now, don’t make that face, dear—as your nephews have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, you’ll be able to watch them grow and live and die, each generation, if you take care of yourself, for eternity.”

Staggered by the depressing nature of that thought, I patted his hands. “But you can do that, too, just on a smaller scale. I mean, everybody around here knows who their great-grandparents are. And you have your nephew. You’ve been able to watch him grow up and have children.”

“My nephew moved to Guatemala for mission work nearly five years ago, and I rarely hear from him. I don’t see him having children, if there is a just and loving God.” Mr. Wainwright shook his head fondly at the mention of Emery, his late sister’s Bible-thumping, personality-free son. “And I don’t know who my great-grandparents were, at least not any relatives in this area. My mother was from up north, upstate New York, and my father died when I was very young. I’m afraid their union wasn’t a very happy one, and she didn’t keep many of his things. He rarely spoke to her about his family. And it seemed to upset her to talk about him. It might have been nice to have relatives, but from what I can see, it’s a sort of genetic crapshoot. You’re not likely to end up related to people you like.”

“Case in point, my grandma Ruthie. But then you have wonderful chromosomal coincidences like my aunt Jettie and my dad.” He smiled. “How about I start clearing through these boxes and you can get back to the Internet orders?”

“Wonderful,” he said. “And Jane, dear—”

“Don’t throw anything away without showing it to you first,” I repeated. “How was I supposed to know that was spirit writing? It looked like a bunch of doodles on a cocktail napkin.”

By the time Mr. Wainwright brought me an ancient Limoges teacup filled with microwaved pig’s blood, I was covered in a fine layer of dust but had cleared away most of the stock into “Keep,” “Throw Away,” and “Burn on Consecrated Ground” piles.

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the cup with a grateful nonbeating heart.

“There’s a young man asking for you up front, Jane,” he said as I sipped. “I think he’s one of your kind. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place him.”

“Did he mention working for the council?” I asked. “Things tend to go badly for me when they drop by for a visit.”

“I doubt it,” Mr. Wainwright said. “He’s wearing a T-shirt that says, ‘One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.’ I don’t think I’ve ever seen a vampire in a novelty T-shirt before. Extraordinary, really.”

That could only be one vampire.

Richard Cheney, whom I delight in calling Dick, is an old friend of Gabriel’s—about 150 years old. Buddies from the cradle, they split over a gambling debt in their early twenties.

Dick was turned eleven years later, also over a gambling debt. Do you see a pattern here?

Dick is the local center for not-quite-legitimate commerce. If you want something, just ask Dick. But don’t ask where, how, or which international laws he broke while procuring it.

Also, you’ll want to pay in cash.

It wasn’t as difficult as I’d expected to blend my one living friend into my new undead circle. Dick and Zeb got along famously. As Dick put it, Zeb “grows on you, like a stray, spazzy puppy that followed you home.” And Zeb and Gabriel built a friendship on the shared experience of saving my ass from Missy, Dick’s murderous ex. Even better, Zeb had somehow formed a bridge between Gabriel and Dick, former childhood friends who had turned eternal life into a prolonged male pissing contest. Thanks to the time they’d spent with Zeb, Gabriel and Dick had declared something of a ceasefire. And while they certainly weren’t going to be getting matching tattoos anytime soon, at least Dick had stopped leaving silver shavings on Gabriel’s furniture.

If I was the best maid, then Dick could be considered Zeb’s man of honor. Dick secured his spot in the wedding party after spending several bonding-filled weeks on Zeb’s couch after his trailer blew up. Gabriel might have been promoted above groomsman had he been in town more often lately … and not made fun of Zeb’s extensive GI Joe collection.

Whether it’s because he genuinely enjoys my company or enjoys irritating Gabriel, Dick and I had spent a lot of time together since I was turned. He became a regular visitor at River Oaks. In fact, he stayed on my couch for a few days after he wore out his welcome at Zeb’s. Using his secret vampire wiles, Gabriel anonymously set Dick up at a nearby apartment because of Dick’s tendency to make comments such as the following.

“Ah, the lovely Jane. I’ve always said you were a dirty girl,” he said, swiping at the dust on my cheek. Dick could be considered attractive if you considered laughing sea-green eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and full pouting lips permanently twisted into a mocking, yet somehow seductive smirk attractive. Combine that with the constant barrage of sassy banter, and you got a “You’ll regret me in the morning” charisma that had almost every female who crossed his path melting into little puddles of giggly goo at his feet. I was a rare exception and, as Dick often reminded me, his only strictly platonic friend who also happened to have breasts.

I had a soft spot for Dick Cheney. Technically, it was my fault that his trailer had been torched by Missy in an attempt to frame me for his murder. And in between the disturbing innuendos, there was normally a nugget of likability.

Buried deep, deep down.

“Wow, you are truly master of the single entendre.” I rolled my eyes. “Do your lines work on anybody, ever?”

“I just wanted to check on you, Stretch,” he said, patting my head, a gesture that he knew I hated. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. I worry when I’m not called to save your cute little hind end at least once a week.”

“I don’t have a cute little hind end,” I groused.

“I know, it’s more medium to large, but I was trying to be kind,” he replied, dodging the Pocket Guide to Poltergeist Activity I chucked at him. “Keep that up, and I’ll go outside, take that rusty bucket you call a car, and drive it into a quarry. It would be a mercy killing.”

I squealed. “She’s here?”

I ran outside to find my old Ford station wagon, Big Bertha, parked in front of the store.

Dick had used some of his not-quite-legal connections to barter for spare parts and repairs that I could not afford on a part-time shopgirl’s salary. I just had to tutor some were-skunk mechanic’s kids in English for the next semester.

“She’s beautiful.” I sighed, rubbing a loving hand over the dimpled hood.

“It looks exactly the same,” Dick said. “Pathetic. It probably cost you as much in repairs as it would to put a down payment on a decent car that doesn’t smoke when you turn the ignition.”

“Big Bertha was my first car, my first love. Aunt Jettie taught me how to drive in this car. I’m just not ready to give her up yet.”