“What difference does that make?”
“It makes all the difference. I don’t want the kind of power that lets me hurt people or punish them. I’m not that person.”
“You could be, though.” His voice was soft and persuasive. “Do you think this man’s life is precious to him? Do you think he wouldn’t trade it for the peace of oblivion? You can help him. Bite him. Feast on his blood. Join me.” His cadence was hypnotic and alluring, and for a moment, I did consider joining him. He must have seen something in my expression, because he smiled—a winner’s smile—and went down on his knees beside the man, then plunged his teeth into the man’s neck. The man convulsed, and I didn’t wait to see more. I turned and ran. This time, Le Bec was too busy to chase me.
Chapter 17
Seven Weeks Ago
Noor:I cannot draw
Noor was always drawing. She was always looking, always putting lines onto paper. She sketched everything: people, buildings, landscapes, laying down gestures and shapes with clean, fast lines that captured the essence of what she observed.
Noor:I am not me if I cannot draw
Noor:And that is not all
Today, she’d cut her finger. She stuck it into her mouth like you do, and the blood seeping from the wound had tasted so delicious that she’d started gnawing on it. She finally forced herself to stop, but her finger looked like hamburger. My heart froze.
Noor:I am afraid that there is something wrong with me
She was really asking if I thought Le Bec had infected her, and I didn’t know how to answer. Last night, I’d felt an awful, compelling rush of power and narcissism and hunger, and then he’d told me I was a vampire. But that feeling had lasted for only a few minutes. And when I’d gotten home, I’d checked my mirror right away and seen my reflection.
Me:Can you see your reflection?
Noor:Yes
Me:Then you’re fine. Maybe it’s stress? Or anxiety?
It was probably stress. I thought about telling her what had happened last night with Le Bec, but I was too ashamed. I’d run away instead of trying to help the unhoused man. I’d talked about his humanity, but I’d left him at the mercy of a monster to save myself.
When I posted my mirror selfie in our chat that night and tagged it #StillNotAVampire, I felt like a hypocrite. Like a vampire by proxy. But if I didn’t post a #StillNotAVampire pic, I worried that my friends would ask me questions that I wasn’t sure how to answer. I tapped out of the chat early, feeling too guilty and horrible for human interaction. And then I lay in bed replaying my convo with Le Bec until I finally fell into a dream.
I was walking down Rue de Rennes, window-shopping, when a passing guy caught my eye. There was something enticing about the way he moved, and I did an abrupt about-face and followed him. Or rather, followed his delicious scent: rain on stone and dried figs. Passersby scrambled out of my way. I liked that. It felt heavenly not to be scared; it was a rush to be the one doing the scaring. I followed my prey leisurely for a couple of blocks, and suddenly we were on an empty street, and it was night. He glanced over his shoulder and saw me. There was fear in his eyes. The fear made him smell more enticing, kind of like bacon, and I realized how hungry I was. He sped up, and I felt a thrill of power as I matched his pace. I liked that he was scared of me. I followed him for another block, enjoying his nervous backward glances and the knowledge that I could do anything I wanted to him because no one would stop me. I wanted to feed on him. I quickened my pace until I was close enough to reach out and grab him. He was terrified, and it felt amazing to have that kind of power over someone. At that moment, I was his world, his god. My whim decided whether he entered another world or stayed in this one. I grabbed his chin and wrenched it up, my teeth bared.
I jerked awake, my heart pounding. For a long, horrifying minute, I wasn’t sure where I was. I finally calmed down enough to feel the bed under me, and I reached over and turned on my lamp. I checked my hands for blood, then went into my bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was no blood on my face or my pajamas. It had been a dream. I remembered how real and wonderful the power to stalksomeone and change his life had felt, and I shivered. I didn’t like how seductive that feeling was. I didn’t like how much I enjoyed the rush of power. I got back into bed, but it took a long time before I could fall asleep again.
I woke up the next morning unrested and ravenous and padded down the hall into the kitchen. I’d hoped Dad would still be sleeping, but he was at the table, staring at his laptop. A half-finished cup of black coffee and a plate with croissant shards on it sat forgotten at his elbow.
He looked up. “Morning,” I whispered.
He smiled. “Madame Dupuy’s infusion is really helping your voice.”
I nodded. I got a mug out of the cupboard and focused on coffee. I love the coffee part of the morning. I love the ritual of making it. I love the aroma as it brews, the first frothy sip, and the gratifying jolt of caffeine. Coffee is a daily miracle, driving away the terrors of the night. When things were so bad last year, when I’d wake up from dark dreams where Cole lurked, when I was at my weakest, it warmed and fortified me. I poured milk into a pitcher and heated it, and when it was just starting to steam, I took the pitcher in one hand and the coffee carafe in the other and poured them both at the same time into an oversized mug. It’s such a satisfying way to do it—a little flourish to start the day, a little tour de main—but not so complicated you can’t accomplish it uncaffeinated.
I cradled my cup, enjoying its warmth. I let the steam brush my face, then took a sip. I almost spat it across the table. It tasted like burnt feathers dissolved in kerosene. Alittle bit of me wanted to cry. I just wanted the comfort of my café au lait, not another disturbing side effect to deal with. I dribbled the coffee back into the cup, then used my teeth to try to scrape the taste of it off my tongue. I eyed the croissants on the platter in the middle of the table, wondering if they’d taste terrible, too. Probably. My sense of taste had been completely screwed up ever since my attack. But I was hungry. I picked one up and spread Nutella on it. I’ll put Nutella on anything, but it’s especially wonderful on croissants. I took a small, careful bite. It tasted like sulfur. But I was starving, so I focused on swallowing without gagging. I forced it all down, one horrible bite at a time, because my stomach kept demanding to be fed. Dad looked up from his phone, saw my face, and said, “You look terrible. You need to go back to bed.” I didn’t argue with him. Instead, I crawled into bed and slept through most of the day. I woke up just before dinner to the sweet, coppery, slightly rotten smell of duck gésiers. Gizzards are one of my “no thank you so much” foods, and Madame Dupuy knew that. But she also insisted that Dad and I learn to eat inexplicable French delicacies. Tonight they smelled enticing. After my experience with breakfast, though, I dreaded even more than usual having to eat them. They taste like meat pureed with blood and sugar: too rich, too sweet, with disturbing metallic overtones.
Madame Dupuy had made a beautiful meal, as usual. We started with salad. The ruffled lettuce leaves, glistening with dressing, cradled crispy chunks of gésiers. I was relieved—and puzzled—when I sampled a tiny bite of oneand it tasted delicious. I hoovered up the salad, and Dad commented on how nice it was to see me with an appetite. Sliced sautéed duck breasts followed, covered with a caramel-colored pan sauce and topped with orange medallions. Steamed baby green beans nestled next to them. A baguette sat on the table ready to mop up every drop of sauce. It broke my heart with its beauty, and it tasted like dumpster scrapings. I had a wolf’s hunger, though, so I chewed my way through all of it. Dad complimented Madame Dupuy on the meal, and I nodded. She gave him a calculating look. “Even the gésiers?”
“I’m beginning to appreciate gésiers,” he said. “As long as there’s enough salad and bread surrounding them.”
“Both of you are.”
I gave her a weak smile. “Maybe we’re becoming French,” I rasped. Dessert was fromage frais with raspberry coulis, which I normally love but didn’t bother to finish because it tasted like used cat litter. I retreated to my room and tried to watch an episode ofBuffy, but I couldn’t focus. Instead, I leaned onto my windowsill, watching late commuters rushing home from the nearby Métro stop. I felt foreign to myself, like I wasn’t me anymore. Le Bec had told me I was a vampire. The mirror test said I wasn’t. I couldn’t get the unhoused man out of my head, though. The way he’d looked so vulnerable lying there, the way my mouth had watered when I saw him. Was I a vampire? Was I broken? Had I lost myself? The questions chased each other around in a tightening spiral until I felt so dizzy I collapsed onto my bed. Right at eye level hung a print I’d made from one of Youssef’s photos. It was a rosewindow—I hadn’t known the name until he’d told me—and the print was an enlarged detail of the tracery.You’re not seeing the big picture, I thought, my eyes moving over the image.You need to use debate brain.
I formulated the question: Was I a vampire? I spent several minutes listing reasons I couldn’t be one, but each of them had a counterargument. I tried reversing the question and listing the reasons I was most certainly a vampire—sometimes going to the place you don’t want to go gives you clarity—but all those reasons had counters, too. Everything centered on Madame Dupuy’s test: Could I see my reflection? I could, so I wasn’t. But after what Le Bec said, I didn’t quite trust it. I wanted a second opinion. I was trying to remember if she’d said anything else about vampires when my eyes fell on her silver pendant, still sitting on my bedside table, the broken chain pooled around it. Silver burns vampires. That’s what she’d said when she’d given it to me. I reached for it, then stopped. Did I really, really want to know? If I knew, I’d have to make choices. Hard ones. I sat perfectly still, balancing between the Tosh I had been and the Tosh I might be. I sighed, counted to three, and touched the pendant. Pain sizzled on my skin, and I jerked my hand back, staring at the filigree pattern branded on my finger. I felt like I’d stepped off a cliff.
When Madame Dupuy brought me the throat tea just before she left for the evening, she was smiling. “Your father has agreed that you can return to school tomorrow.” I blinked at her, completely unprepared for this development. “What is wrong?” she asked.
