Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs

“I don’t think that’s possible,” I said, pressing my hand against his chest to keep him away. It was like touching a brick wall. Hard, immovable, and lifeless. There was no heartbeat beneath my palm, no breath.

This was not good.

“You have to feed, and there are things we need to discuss,” he murmured. He moved closer, running the tip of his nose along my hairline. That worried me, considering the three-day bathing hiatus. But my general odor didn’t seem to bother him. Quite the contrary. He pulled my hand low, dragging me against him. I desired nothing more than to lean into him, let him wrap me in those long arms, and drink from him until I couldn’t care anymore.

And then my stupid logical brain piped up. I didn’t know this guy. I didn’t even know where I was, really. For all I knew, I was having some sort of bizarre allergic reaction to the GHB he’d slipped me. And now I was going to let him slobber all over me? Um, no.

“Stay away from me!” I threw him into a wall. Hard. Hard enough to knock some attractive watercolors off the plaster and to the floor.

I grabbed my purse, which was conveniently placed by the front door. Gabriel was such a considerate abductor/host. He even left the front door unpadlocked.

The sun had just set, leaving a muggy late-summer evening in its wake. The scent of growth, quiet and green, hung heavy in the air. I heard everything. I saw everything. I could count the craters on the moon. I could count every mosquito buzz past, bypassing my tender skin out of respect for a fellow bloodsucker. I heard the rustle of every leaf on every tree. I could feel animals in the woods, scuttling through the grass. Dark things feeding, running, feasting—and I envied them.

“Jane!” Gabriel was framed in the front door. He did not seem happy.

I’m not a “spring into action” sort of girl. And yet I was dashing headlong into the woods like an overcaffeinated gazelle. I bounded through the trees, sensing animals stop and watch me as I sprinted by. I laughed into the wind, amazed at this new freedom. I broke into an easy lope when I could no longer sense Gabriel behind me. I stayed away from the main roads, vaulting over barbed-wire fences and through pastures. I disturbed Hank Yancy’s cattle enough to send him running to his front porch with a shotgun.

It took about two miles before it registered that my feet were bare and stinging, but even that felt good. I’d never felt so alive, so aware, so ravenously hungry. I finally understood those crazy people who talked about runner’s highs.

I bounded up the front steps of River Oaks, the 147-year-old pre-Civil War farmhouse I inherited from my great-aunt Jettie, and threw myself on the living-room sofa, dazed and laughing. I had to figure out what the hell to do next. First order of business, I was starving. Where did a vampire get her very first breakfast?

I was evaluating the overall ick factor of that statement when Zeb Lavelle, my best friend since first grade, strode into my living room.

“Janie, where the hell have you been?”

There are many alternatives to drinking human blood, including synthetic blood and animal blood. Warm-blooded animals, such as pigs or cows, are recommended, as reptilian blood tends to be bitter. In order to make synthetic or animal blood more palatable, we suggest microwaving it for thirty-eight seconds at 75-percent power. Dropping a penny into the blood (after microwaving!) also gives it an authentic coppery taste. (From The Guide for the Newly Undead).

“I —”

“Wait,” Zeb said, pulling me off the couch and wrapping me in his long, gangly arms. I could smell traces of aftershave on his skin and French Onion Sun Chips on his breath. I could feel the blood coursing through his veins, see the staccato beat of his pulse at his throat.

Zeb was oblivious to these disturbing developments. “I’m really glad you’re OK…what’s with the pajamas?”

“I—”

“Seriously, where have you been?” he demanded. “I heard about you getting fired on Wednesday, and I came here Wednesday to see how you were doing, but you weren’t here. Did I mention that was on Wednesday? I can understand that you needed a self-pity bender, Jane, but you have to let someone know where you are. I’ve been feeding your psychotic dog for three days. Your mom’s been going nuts, and you know that means she’s been calling me.”

“I—”

“I’ve been able to hold her off from calling the police for this long, but I’ll feel bad if some pajama fetish freak has been keeping you in his basement this whole time.”

“Stop!” I thundered, my voice pitching to a deep smoker’s tenor. The raspy command seemed to settle Zeb down pretty quickly. He dropped to the couch, waiting for my next command. It was the first time in more than twenty years of friendship that he was completely silent and still.

“I’m fine.” I cleared my throat and returned to my normal voice, pushing the words around the strange stretching sensation in my mouth. My teeth felt as if they were growing. “Everything is fine…Wait, you already heard I got fired?”

Emerging from his stupor, Zeb shot me a look both pitiful and withering. Coming from Zeb, it wasn’t that intimidating. Picture Steve Zahn with big brown eyes and less impulse control. “It’s the Hollow, Jane. The whole town knows you got fired.”

“Oh, that’s not good,” I said, sinking next to him.

“Aww, it’s OK,” he said, putting his arm around me again. “I’ve told everybody you were fired because Mrs. Stubblefield was afraid you’d take her job. And that you had proof that she was drinking at her desk.” Zeb grinned, clearly thrilled with his own cleverness.

“Thanks, Zeb.” I nestled into the curve of his neck. He stiffened. This was not a normal move for me. We were in the strictly no-nookie, personal-space-respecting category of platonic friendship.

Just one little nip, a sly voice told me. He’ll barely feel it. Drink your fill. He might even enjoy it. I could picture his veins opening to me, pouring his blood over my lips, like drinking straight from a bottle of Hershey’s syrup. My tongue reached out to trace the path of his jugular.

“Um, Janie, I know you’re upset about your job and everything, but I don’t think this is the way to go,” he said, prying my hands away. Every muscle burned in the grip of my thirst, jumping under the skin. I clutched his shirt, tearing it as I pulled him to me.

“I’m sorry, Zeb. I’m just so hungry.”

He laughed, a nervous noise that jangled my nerves. I could smell his fear, a thick tang of adrenaline over the sweat breaking on his lip. My stomach rumbled in response.

Zeb blanched. “How about we order a pizza? My treat?”

I clamped my hands over Zeb’s and pressed him back against the cushions. “Zeb, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

“Jane!”

I whirled and, I am ashamed to say, hissed as Gabriel threw open my front door.

He swept into the room with the slow-motion, flowy-coated elegance you only see in the Matrix movies. Zeb gave a girlish shriek as Gabriel threw me off him and across the room.

“Sleep,” Gabriel told him. Zeb slumped over, and his face melted from blind twitching terror to blissful slumber.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, righting myself from my tumble into the (cold, dark) fireplace. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me!” he shouted, so loudly that I felt the echo bouncing around my skull. “I am your sire. I am to guide you through your first days as a vampire. Your first feeding is a rite of passage, a sacrament. It will not be wasted on some hormone-driven frenzy. This is why I wanted you to feed from me.”