I was so fucking stupid to tell him. I don’t know why I did it, why I kept talking in the confessional booth like it wasn’t real life, like it was a dream that wasn’t going to come back and bite me in the ass. I rise from the floor slowly and approach the door before they knock again. I can see a figure move through the wavy, frosted glass that I had put in to replace the glass Mike Sheep had smashed. It’s a man.
It’s him.
My brain screams at me. His teeth, those teeth that were too sharp to be real pop into my mind and I wrap my arms around myself while I try to reason with my lizard brain that’s screaming there’s danger at the door and that I totally saw a man with fangs smiling at me in the confessional booth last night.
“It’s not him. It can’t be.” I bite my lip and run through a dozen reasons why it can’t be the not Father Paretti from last night: How would he know it was me? How would he know where I live? And of course, I’m not even sure he was real. Iwas probably just hallucinating last night, I tell myself. I know my stupid list is wrong and that I wasn’t hallucinating when I confessed what I did, but even so… I’m scared. I’m jumping to conclusions like a lunatic.
“It’s not him,” I whisper again softly and force myself to walk towards the door. As much as I don’t want to open it, if I don’t, someone else will come see why. Even shunned the way I am in town, people will want to know where I am. I take a deep breath when I’m in front of the door and reach out a shaking hand to open it. I don’t bother with a fake smile. There’s no one in town that I care to smile for anymore.
I open the door with more force than I need and it hits my shoulder with how fast I do it. I wince and stumble forward a step while my guest comes out of the shining afternoon sun to steady me.
It takes a second for me to focus on his face but when I see him, I gasp.
It’s my neighbor.
“Good afternoon,” he says, helping me find my balance on the threshold of the door. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to startle you. I just moved in next door and wanted to introduce myself. I’m Julian Vale, the new doctor in town.”
“No, it’s no trouble. You didn’t,” I start and then stop before I find my words again. It’s been so long since someone introduced themselves to me. The years of manners and etiquette training by my grandmother pay off and even as banged up as I am, I manage a smile, opening the door wider for him. “You didn’t startle me. My apologies. I’m just clumsy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Julian.”
“No apologies necessary. I’m the one who turned up on your door. And may I ask who do I have the pleasure of calling my neighbor?” Julian asks me. He leans against the doorframe and gives me a warm smile. He has nice eyes. Kind eyes. There’ssomething in them that makes me feel like who I used to be and like a fool, I let that part welcome him into my life.
I let the woman I used to be wake up.
I smile back at him and hold out my hand to him. “I’m Maris Martinez. Won’t you come in?”
Thirteen
JULIAN
“Apleasure to meet you, Maris.”
It’s old-fashioned but I’m vampire enough to show I’m obsessed with the woman in front of me. I lean in, take her hand, and drop a kiss to the back of it. “I’d love to come inside. Thank you.”
The old wives’ tales got some things right. Maybe not with the whole demonic possession and death by sunlight thing but an invitation is the only way a vampire can come inside someone’s home. Formal, informal, written, verbal, it could be a damn smoke signal for all the fates cared, so long as it was consensual.
I hear Maris’ soft intake of breath. When I look up at her, her cheeks are pink and her eyes wide. She looks younger like this. Nothing at all like the bloodthirsty little murderess I know her to be. Not even the bruise on the side of her face and split lip mar the innocence I see in her right now. The cut above her eye looks like it’s been opened recently. Anger flares in me at the thought of someone hitting her, but then I see the back of her last victim’s head in my mind and the savage parts of me yearnfor the brutality that I know lives in Maris. She might have been hit but she got her revenge.
My murderess.
She can be vicious but right now she’s docile. Pink cheeked like she’s a teenager greeting her crush. I like the way this kind of innocence colors Maris. She’s pretty like this. Delicate.
Mine.
Maris holds the door open wider for me and I enter. “I hope I’m not intruding. If you don’t have time for a visit, I can come back later,” I offer.
I’ve been watching her house all goddamn day. It took a little bit of finagling but luck was on my side and I was able to call off work today under the pretense of working from home to catch up on paperwork. I finished the paperwork hours ago, dutifully completed while keeping a watchful eye on my neighbor.
She didn’t stir, not even a look out of a window. There’s a feeling to homes when you know the people inside are sleeping. It’s like the home, boards, bricks and mortar are all sleeping too. A slumbering giant with slow and heavy energy. This home feels that way even with us standing in the brightly lit foyer.
It’s a beautiful home. The floors shine in the sunlight and a grand staircase leads up to the second floor. The molding and original plasterwork is beautifully done and the foyer is painted a rich green, making it all feel bigger than the space really is. A grandfather clock ticks away to the left of us. It’s taller than me and I smile seeing it. It’s the kind you wind up with a key to keep going. I turn, taking in the space above us where a sparkling chandelier sits dark. It would be overkill with the afternoon sun lighting the room but at night the chandelier would be a beauty. Every part of this house would be a sight to behold. I look through the open doorway beside the grandfather clock to the living room and to the right of us is a hallway that leads to what I know is her kitchen.
“You have a lovely home,” I tell her and I’m not lying. A place like this, with all of its original glory still intact and tended to, is rare. If Maris was in a corset or petticoats, it would be easy to forget what time period I’m in. Though the older I get, the easier that happens. That’s the way of things, isn’t it? No matter if you’re mortal or immortal, time has a way of making you feel it. No one escapes.
“It’s my family’s home,” Maris says softly and closes the door.
“Doesn’t that make it yours?”
She pauses and then nods after a hard swallow. I watch the delicate movement of her throat before she speaks. Two rosebud lips part and Jesus Christ, what am I doing? Waxing poetic about her the way I would have when I was still human. I take a step back from Maris to regain some semblance of calm as she speaks.
