The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires (28 page)

“And how was it?”

“Barely edible,” he said, shuddering. “But we laughed
over it, eventually. We didn’t have many times like that. I haven’t thought about that day in … far too long. I’d almost forgotten about it.”

His eyes had a faraway look, as if he was scanning his internal banks for more memories of his wife, his family. His brow creased, a straight little line forming between them. Was he upset that he had to try so hard? Could he not remember what she looked like? In another thousand years, would he struggle to remember my name? Would I qualify for a spot in his recollections? It seemed unlikely that he could forget someone who tripped over his half-dead body and smuggled him away like a thief in the night. But Paul had only remembered me when he had no other options. This did not bode well.

Depressed by this train of thought, I asked, “What was her name?”

“Euphemia,” he said, smiling.

“Euphemia and Cletus?”

“Don’t start, woman.”

I nudged him with my foot. “It’s a sweet story, Cal.”

He smiled at me, catching my foot by the ankle and squeezing it gently. “Thank you for reminding me.”

I nodded, pleased that he seemed happy for the moment. Chewing on a strand of licorice, I dug into my new books and searched for any information on plants that had a paralytic effect on vampires or encouraged their bloodthirst. But this was a new field of plant research for me, and the work was slow. I took notes, made a little chart to cross-reference, and eventually threw it out
when it started to look like a tiny inked-up patchwork quilt.

Frustrated, I crumpled up the paper and threw it into the wastebasket. I turned back to the shelf, letting my eyes wander over the gilded titles. I needed inspiration. I needed something that would connect all of the little bits of information floating around in my head. There was something itching at the corner of my brain, something I was missing, something I should know—

“Oh!” I exclaimed, launching myself at the window seat. I balanced one foot on the edge—right between Cal’s thighs—as I strained to reach a book on the far top shelf.

“Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing the position of my foot warily. I ignored him and jumped to the floor,
A Guide to European Wildflowers
in my hands. I opened it, grinned widely, and showed him a picture of vibrant blue blossoms.

“You, my friend, were poisoned with a combination of wolfsbane and bittersweet nightshade!” I exclaimed.

“That’s a poetic combination. What are you basing this on?”

“Pure conjecture,” I deadpanned. When he rolled his eyes, I explained, “OK, so we’ve discussed the fact that aconitine showed up in the Blue Moon poison, yes?” He nodded. “Aconite is another name for wolfsbane.”

“I thought we’d covered the fact that I’m not a werewolf.”

“According to this, aconite is sort of a catchall supernatural
plant. It’s sort of funny that humans got this one right. Botanists believe that early Europeans attributed the plant’s supernatural quality to the unearthly blue color. Anyway, according to
The Natural Versus the Supernatural
, the plant contains an enzyme that basically opens up vampire neurotransmitters to constant stimulation. Your muscles, your nervous system, your vascular system are all wide open. If someone were to combine the plant’s effects with another compound …”

“I take it that’s where the bittersweet nightshade comes in?”

I opened
The Natural Versus the Supernatural
, pointing to the relevant passage. The illustration showed a climbing vine plant with strange purple flowers. The blooms hung from the stem in an arch, puffing out like a sultan’s cap over a distinct yellow stamen.

“Bittersweet nightshade contains a glycoalkaloid poison called solanine.”

“Do you know what a glycoalkaloid is?” he asked suddenly.

“I happened to perform very well in chemistry, thank you, so yes.”

“That is far sexier than I anticipated,” he said, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “Have I mentioned that I adore your little blouses and pencil skirts? I’ve never worked full-time in an office, but I think I would enjoy chasing you around my desk in the outfit you wore to work today.”

“Why am I the secretary in this scenario?” I asked. “I could be your boss.”

“Fine, you could chase me around your desk.” He sighed. “I would enjoy it either way.”

“Stop sidetracking me with premeditated sexual harassment,” I snipped. “Now, in humans, this causes dizziness, fever, intestinal chaos—the descriptions of which I will spare you—and sometimes paralysis. But vampires don’t get dizziness, fevers, or the intestinal pyrotechnics. Instead, you just get the paralysis. That might not be so bad, except, thanks to the aconitine, all of the little transmitters in your brain are wide open, so it’s a total shutdown of your systems.”

His face darkened, and my triumph at having found the answer was diminished. Someone had tried to tear him down completely, to make him defenseless, helpless, so they could sneak into his house and finish him. I couldn’t find the words to comfort him or to help him see that ultimately, it didn’t matter, that he’d outmaneuvered them anyway. So, I just kept talking.

“The only treatment for the poison is feeding, flushing it out with fresh blood,” I said, pointing to the page. “Unfortunately, in you, this seemed to trigger the emetic aspects of the solanine, and you vomited. A lot. On me.”

“Message received. I will stop vomiting on you,” he grumbled. I grinned cheekily and nudged him with my elbow.

I thumbed to an index of each plant’s ideal growth conditions. It was a concise little chart with color photos and a handy little map illustration with each entry.

“I think we can safely assume that whoever is diddling with the blood supply is the same person who poisoned
you. If we could just figure out where this person is growing this stuff, it might help us figure out what they’re using for the mass poisonings.” My finger traced down the index, stopping next to a cluster of small white flowers with yellow centers. “That’s weird,” I mumbled, flipping through the pages for the plant’s full entry. I hopped up to grab
The Natural Versus the Supernatural
, finding the plant bolded in the index under “highly dangerous.”

I studied the illustration in Jane’s book. I murmured, “Glossy green leaves, white flowers, spots on the … how many plants could there be that look like that?”

“Is this a private conversation, or can anyone join?” Cal asked dryly.

“Cute.” I pulled a face at him and showed him the illustration. “When I was looking at the lab reports before, I couldn’t figure out why chemicals found in lungwort were showing up in the poisoned vampire’s blood. This plant in Jane’s book, fangwort, would be very similar in structure and chemical makeup. Jane’s book says it ‘fires the bloodlust of vampires to a painful degree; they will recognize neither friend nor foe.’ It’s supposed to grow in hot, humid areas of the Iberian Peninsula—you know, modern-day Spain, Portugal, a little tiny bit of—”

“I know where the Iberian Peninsula is, Iris.”

“I know, I know, you probably built the first road or furrowed the first wheat field ever sown there.”

“Brat.”

“Cradle robber.”

“Grave robber.”

When I couldn’t come up with a sufficiently snarky insult, I went on. “Fangwort is supposed to grow in the warm, humid areas of the Iberian Peninsula. But I swear to you, I’ve seen it before. I remember spotting something like that on one of my mom’s hiking expeditions. She used to take me on these hikes through the woods to find interesting plants for her garden. We’d cut a sample to dry and another to plant. She loved using wild, uncultivated flowers in her beds. She said it kept her gardens honest. And in general, they were heartier than what you buy at a nursery. And I remember seeing something like this weird-looking plant on one of the last trips we took before she died. Mom liked it, but we’d already taken so many that day that she didn’t want to be greedy. But—”

I hopped up, dashing to the bookshelf. I ran my fingers along the spines until I found the spiral notebook I was looking for.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for my mom’s cutting journal.”

“What is that, exactly?” he asked. “Was your mother a particularly violent woman?”

I shoved at his shoulders absently as I searched the shelf. Mom’s journal was a thing of beauty. A smooth canvas cover embroidered with little spring green leaves, hand-stitched by Gigi as a Girl Scout/Mother’s Day project. Inside, Mom had catalogued every interesting plant we’d seen on our hikes, by date, including the latitude and longitude, the size of the bed, a description of the environment, and a sketch of a sample. My mother’s neat block print brought a strange longing sensation that I hadn’t expected.
I missed her so much. I missed the way she teased a laugh out of us when we were upset. I missed the way she cheated at Monopoly and tried to make us think that we’d just forgotten that she had hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place. I missed knowing that we were safe and that Mom and Dad had everything in hand.

I flipped to the end of the book, to June 2005:
Found a rather sizeable plot (6m by 4m) of this strange root plant today in an area off County Line Road. It’s clearly a “wort” plant, note broad flat leaves, and small white flowers with greenish-yellow stamens. Similar to an illustration of bloodwort,* but leaves seem too different. I didn’t take a cutting because it just felt, well, wrong somehow. There was something very off-putting about the plant, a bit like approaching poison ivy and knowing you’re about to do something that will bring about itchy misery. Iris wasn’t keen on it, either, so we left it alone. *Illustration found on page 233 of “An Illustrated Guide to the Flowering Plants of Europe.”

I opened the book to show Cal my mother’s sketch, which bore a striking resemblance to the illustration in the book. “My mom wouldn’t have had access to books like Jane’s; otherwise, she might have known what she was looking at. So, how are all of these obscure foreign plants finding their way here to rural Kentucky? I mean, other than the warm, humid climate, the two places have nothing in common. And why is there a patch of it growing in a field in the middle of nowhere? There are no houses in that area near County Line Road. I don’t know
if there ever have been, so it’s not like it’s some remnant of a Civil War era garden.”

“Where is it?” he asked, pulling out a map of McClure County.

I compared my mom’s notes, which included a meticulous notation of the exact longitude and latitude of the location, with the county map and pointed. “Right there.”

“Do you think the patch might still be there?”

“Anything’s possible,” I said, shrugging.

“You have been a tremendous help,” he said, kissing my forehead. He bounded off the couch and was down the stairs in a flash. By the time I reached the ground floor, he was reaching for the front doorknob.

I called, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“The location mentioned in your mother’s cutting journal.”

“It’s the middle of the night. It could take us hours to find the right place and hours more to get the information you want, which could leave us stranded in the middle of the woods at sunrise. That would not be good for your complexion.”

“I could be there in far less time if I went alone,” he said, casting me an apologetic look. “I would move faster without you.”

“But you wouldn’t know what you’re looking for,” I countered.

“I am capable of following a map and your field guide.”

“But short of a little sign that says, ‘My name is (blank)
and this is my poisonous plant farm,’ which is doubtful, you won’t be able to interpret what you see there. You need me.”

“How many more reasons are you going to give me to delay until tomorrow?”

“As many as it takes. I’m good with lists,” I said, innocently batting my eyes. Cal growled in frustration. I nipped the tip of his nose and smirked at him. “Admit it, honey, you need me. Rescuing you from kitchens. Stealing valuable documents. Personal forest tours. I provide a comprehensive, invaluable service.”

“I do need you,” he said quietly. Without finishing that thought, he sighed, resigned, and slumped up the stairs to the reading nook. Snickering quietly to myself, I heard him mutter, “Should have been in the Athena cabin.”

A hungry vampire is a dangerous vampire. Have alternative blood sources at the ready at all times.

—
The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires

T
he next sunset found me strapping on the hiking boots and the Jansport backpack I’d been using for these little excursions since high school. After massive apologies for her unauthorized school-night outing, Gigi announced that she had plans for the evening. Despite her assertions that she’d been at Ben’s so he could help her with a PowerPoint presentation for her final AP history project, my initial instinct was to ground her.

But Cal insisted that it was a good idea for her to be out of the house for the night. In fact, he was so insistent that I bit back my irritation at his interfering. Cal was worried, whether it was some unseen menace he felt coming or the idea of leaving Gigi unchaperoned in the house where Ben could come by for a “visit.” So Gigi was heading to Ben’s, where both parents were present and had a “the bedroom door stays open at all times” policy.