I’m about to begin documenting my hellacious travel day—which actually equates to more than a day’s worth of hours, thanks to my prolonged layover in Paris—when my phone dings.
Did you find your vampire yet?Gaby, my best friend, asks in her message.
I snort.I landed in Bucharest not even five hours ago, G. Baggage claim took forever, as did the rental car place—so many rules, by the way—and it was a complicated-three hour drive here after all that. I’m exhausted.
Three little dots appear and disappear as Gaby contemplates her reply.
Vampires don’t sleepis what she finally sends back to me.
I wait for more.
But in classic Gaby style, she doesn’t say anything else. However, the implication is clear.I’m a night owl, G. Not a vampire.
Uh-huh,she types back.Says the vampire hunter.
You basically just called me a slayer, G. That implies I want to kill my quarry, which I don’t.That last part is added out of superstition.
I’m certain the object of my research has no idea I’m here.
I mean, why would he? I’m just a human.
But on the off chance he’s aware of me—and also reading these messages—I feel it’s necessary for him to know that I have no desire to harm him.
I still think you should try to fuck him,Gaby responds, as crass as ever.The books I’ve read make it sound like an otherworldly experience. Pun intended.
My lips twitch.Biting is supposed to be euphoric.
That’s what I’m saying,she replies.I just hope he doesn’t glitter in the sun, you know?
I shake my head.You’re ridiculous.
I’m curious,she counters.I’m also not the one who flew all the way to fucking Romania to hunt a mythical creature. But I digress.
Sighing, I type back,The whole point of this adventure is to prove that myths are founded on reality.
Yeah, yeah.I can practically picture her waving her black-polished fingers at me in dismissal, her usual gothic ensemble part of her charm. She’s probably wearing tight leggings and a ripped shirt—both black to match her nails, of course.
Meanwhile, I’m in jeans and a sweater, my messy brown hair pulled up in a bun, and a pair of glasses perched on my nose.
We make quite the pair when out in public.
She approaches life with an “I don’t give a fuck what you think about me” attitude, while I hide behind my books.
Somehow, it works for us.
You don’t have to sell me on this adventure, V,Gaby writes to me.I’m not on the scholarship committee.
I roll my eyes, her comment referring to a discussion we had months ago when I first started planning this study-abroad experience.
“And how do your scholarship providers feel about you using academic funds for a vampire-hunting vacay?” she asked me after I excitedly told her about my plans to finally visit Transylvania.
“It’s for research, G,” I informed her, my voice flat.
“Research,” she repeated. “I mean, I guess fucking can be considered research.”
“Fucking?” I echoed, confused. “I’m going alone… and I don’t plan on hooking up with anyone while I’m there.”
“What about the vampire?” she drawled. “I mean, you will fuck him if you find him, right?”
