The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires (31 page)

She growled and launched a grade-A flounce from the room. “I hate when logic works against me.”

“I told you, I’m fine, nothing a few iron supplements couldn’t take care of,” I whispered, knowing that Gigi was listening outside the door. “If you’re trying to prove to yourself that there aren’t any aftereffects of the pollen—”

“It’s not that,” he said, stroking the still-raw bite mark I’d hidden under a collared Beeline shirt. “I can feel something coming, Iris, something that’s going to resolve this mess. It’s a sort of tickle at the edge of my brain telling me I’m close to a solution. My time here is coming to a close.”

“Oh.” I slumped back against the couch. “Oh.”

I hadn’t thought of Cal’s leaving in days. He was enmeshed in our home now, our lives. I forgot that he only considered it a temporary situation, and an inconvenient one at that. Cheeks pink, I averted my eyes and wanted the floor to swallow me.

“I don’t want to waste what time I have left with you,” he said softly.

“Oh.”

Why couldn’t I stop saying “Oh”?

He smiled, affecting a cheerful tone of voice. “The good news is that I will be exacting bloody, anatomically detailed revenge on the person who nearly killed you—twice. And, of course, you’ll have your life back.”

My expression must have been hurt, because when Gigi walked back in with the file, she faltered a bit. I recovered, smiling. She frowned and handed Cal the file.

Cal flipped through the file, sending a pile of papers sliding into my lap. It was the Vee Balm Inc. Articles of Organization. The papers were filed three years before, in Delaware, a state known for its leniency toward vampire businesses. The papers outlined the initial statements required to form a limited liability company and helped the state track the company’s officers, inventory, and property. I glanced over the papers before handing them back to Cal.

“Hey, what’s this?” I stooped to pick up a battered yellow Post-it half stuck to the third page of the document I was holding. I peeled the note from the page and handed it to Cal.

“It’s just copying instructions,” Cal said, reading the note aloud.
“Copy 2x, one to 1420 Hillington Drive, one to PO Box 0609, both Half-Moon Hollow KY 42002/1—PO BOX—SECOND REQUEST—was pissed on phone
.”

I took it from him. “Let me interpret for you. It means someone else in the Hollow requested a copy of Vee Balm’s company charter paperwork before you did. And apparently, they had to ask for it twice and were not happy about it. Also, the office staff is careless about where they leave sticky notes,” I said, looking the Post-it over. “Why would someone from the Hollow request a copy of the company’s charter? Was it sent to the Council’s PO box?”

Gigi shook her head. “No. All Council office boxes start with a double zero. It’s a special designation through an agreement with the postal service to get free postage. This is a standard box number.” Cal raised his eyebrows. “What? Sammi Jo’s mom works at the post office.”

Cal stared at us for a long, drawn-out pause, his expression thunderstuck. A wide grin split his face, and he sprang up from his seat. He clutched Gigi’s face between his palms.

“You, my sweet girls, are brilliant,” Cal said, giving her cheek a smacking kiss before lunging for me and giving me a long, wet kiss.

Gigi, who was used to casual contact with Cal now, shrugged. “I’ve always said so.”

Cal pulled open his laptop and opened a Web site I didn’t recognize. He tried a reverse lookup of the PO box by number, but it came back as “private.” He bolted out
of the room and came back with his jacket and Gigi’s keys. “I need to borrow your car, Gigi.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“When will you be back?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, by all means, please take my vehicle,” Gigi muttered. “Is this my reward for being a genius?”

“I’m sorry. I would borrow Iris’s car, but it’s a little …”

“Conspicuous?” I suggested.

He nodded, eyeing me carefully. “You could say that a vampire driving a canary-yellow minivan is conspicuous, yes. I’ll bring it back with a full tank, Gigi.”

“Do you have liability insurance?” Gigi asked in an airy tone, clearly enjoying herself.

Cal narrowed his eyes at her. “She gets this from you,” he told me.

Gigi sighed, the picture of teen martyrdom. “OK, but only because the idea of you squishing those long legs behind the wheel of a VW Bug amuses me,” she said. “Oh, wait, I’m going to go get the little bud-vase attachment for the cupholder.”

He groaned as she scampered out of the room.

“Are you going to break into the post office?” I asked.

“Don’t think of it as breaking in, think of it as liberating information.”

“In a way that involves breaking windows and several federal laws.”

He shrugged. “I’ve done it before.”

I cried, “Don’t tell me that!”

“Really, all post-office door codes are the same.”

“Don’t tell me that, either!” I exclaimed. “I’m sure that just knowing that is some sort of felony. Look, I don’t think this is safe. You don’t think it’s a wonderfully strange coincidence that this Post-it just happened to end up stuck to your copy?”

“No. In general, that’s the way my gift works, some random happenstance that leads me to what I’m looking for.”

“So it’s not so much a gift as blind stinking luck.”

“Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as serendipity.” When I rolled my eyes, he nuzzled my neck. “It led me to you.”

“You’re not strong enough yet!” I cried. “Let me come with you.”

“No. I’ve learned my lesson, Iris. And after what happened in the shed, don’t even think of arguing,” he said. “I want you and Gigi to be seen out in public, somewhere with lots of people.”

“Yes, thank you for including me in this decision that affects me. I am so glad my opinions and considerations were taken into account.”

“Trust me, your needs were taken into account, which is why you aren’t going,” he said, slipping into his jacket. “I shouldn’t be gone for more than a few hours. If you come home and I’m not here, if anything seems wrong, I want you to call Ophelia. Tell her the information she needs is in graphite under petal.”

“Is that considered English?”

“She’ll understand eventually.”

“So was this the big ‘moment’ you were waiting for?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, but it’s a step in the right direction. It’s coming, Iris. And when it does—”

“All set!” Gigi crowed as she bounced back into the room. “I even put a Britney Spears CD in the stereo for you.”

It took the concentration of every single cell in my body to keep from bursting out laughing at the expression on Cal’s face.

“I’ll be back soon,” he told me, kissing me softly. Gigi made requisite gagging noises until Cal walked out the front door. We watched as he folded himself into the little green car and drove away.

I tried to tamp down my disquiet. He was just running to the post office. People did that every day … in broad daylight … when it was open. Still, it wasn’t as if someone was going to be lying in wait there just in case Cal caught a misdirected Post-it. But why had Cal given me the weird instructions? Why did he seem so worried?

And when he kissed me, why did it feel like good-bye?

When the brake lights cleared my driveway, I turned on Gigi. “What do you want?”

Her brow creased, and her blue eyes widened to the point where she looked like an animé character. I knew something was up. “Why would you assume that I want something?”

I crossed my arms and gave her a speculative once-over.
“June 2007, you wanted your ears pierced a second time. Your grades improved to a three-point-four average without a lecture from me on responsibility or buckling down. November 2008, you wanted an iPod for Christmas. Without preamble, the garbage was routinely taken out without my nagging, and the laundry pile mysteriously disappeared from the office couch. June 2009, you wanted a car. The recycling miraculously sorted itself. History shows that your sudden willingness to share your car, which you’ve never even let
me
drive, has to be connected to some sort of personal goal.”

She winced, wringing her hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I might have told Sammi Jo and Braelynn that I would meet them for ice cream tonight at ten.”

Excellent—mundane details to distract me!

“At ten? On a school night?” I exclaimed.

“They’re both in rehearsals for the spring musical,” she said, her tone tipping toward wheedling. “They won’t get out until ten. I haven’t seen them in weeks. Please, Iris, please! I’ve got all of my homework done, and I don’t have any tests tomorrow. I’ll be home by eleven.”

I checked my watch. It was around seven-thirty. Cal had told us to go somewhere public, with lots of witnesses.

“I tell you what, you and I will go see a movie, and I’ll drop you off at the Dairy Freeze on the way home. Can Sammi Jo give you a ride?”

“Yes!” she cried, hugging me. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I told her. “I get to pick the movie.”

“Oh, no.” She moaned. “Come on, Iris, I can’t suffer through an Iris pick on a school night!”

“My movie taste isn’t that bad,” I protested as she grabbed her purse.

She snorted. “Says the girl who paid top dollar to see
The Bounty Hunter
in the theater.”

“I have an inappropriate loyalty to Gerard Butler,” I grumbled, shutting the door behind us.

“OK, but did you have to buy it on DVD?” Gigi chuckled.

“It was a Christmas gift. Uncle Clark grabs the DVD with the silliest cover and wraps it,” I shot back, climbing into the driver’s seat of the Dorkmobile. “I am willing to admit that Gerard Butler has single-handedly murdered the romantic comedy.”

Gigi snickered. “Gerard Butler took the romantic comedy to an orgy, accidentally strangled it during an air game, panicked, and dumped its body in the woods.”

I stared at her, gobsmacked. “That may be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard—” I spluttered. “How the hell do you even know what an air game is?”

Gigi preened. “Just because you put the parental locks on HBO doesn’t mean I can’t get around them.”

—

Gigi and I attended a showing of the Bollywood version of
Pride and Prejudice
at the Palladium. The once-great theater had fallen into disrepair over the years, becoming the local “throwback dollar movie” theater during
the last decade. At Jane’s suggestion, Gabriel had bought the theater, refurbished it to its former glory, and turned it into a “nostalgia house” showing old black-and-white movies, eighties classics, and the like. Every Thursday was Jane Austen Night, to honor Jane’s fetish for all things Bennet and Darcy.

Having expected to see something loud and stupid at the multiplex, Gigi was not pleased with this turn of events.

“Why didn’t you ask Miss Jane to come with you?” Gigi asked as I bought tickets for
Bride & Prejudice
.

“Jane won’t do movies with me anymore. I went to her house for
Sense and Sensibility
night. And when I pointed out, quite rightly, that Marianne was a twit and Colonel Brandon would have been better off marrying Elinor, Jane turned gray and started yelling.”

“There better not be subtitles,” Gigi groused, leading me to the candy counter, where I was already eyeing a box of Goobers in the display case.

There were very few subtitles. The movie was a nice blend of Hollywood glamour and Bollywood flair, with just enough snarky humor. Gigi even giggled a few times. I relaxed back into my seat, pushing aside for a moment money problems, Cal, mortal peril.

I forgot sometimes what it was like just to be lazy. Not to run, run, run, checking through the list of things that had to be accomplished that day or the sky would fall down around my ears.

I was content to sit there with my large popcorn, soaking up the revamped romanticism, but Gigi was up
every twenty minutes to go to the bathroom. After the third trip, I started worrying about her kidneys. When she bounced out of her seat during Darcy’s disastrous proposal, I waited a minute and followed her out to the lobby.

Unfortunately, the other movie had just let out, and a crowd flooded the lobby. Apparently, a lot of people wanted to
Sense and Sensibility
that night. I searched the flow of faces, looking for Gigi. I turned the corner around the concession stand and saw Mr. Dodd leaning against the wall, scanning the crowd. Dropping my popcorn, I ducked into the crowded ladies’ room. There was a line, of course, and I subtly glanced under the stall doors for Gigi’s turquoise striped sneakers.

“Gigi?” I hissed.

No response, other than concerned or irritated looks from the other ladies in the bathroom.

“Gigi Scanlon, if you’re in here and ignoring me while I make a jackass out of myself, I am going to be very pissed.”

Other than a few feminine snickers … nothing.

I stuck my head out through the door and checked for Mr. Dodd. I didn’t see him, but I did see my sister, ducking in from an exterior door, looking all flushed and happy. She was tucking her phone into her pocket and looking around the lobby. She turned her back to me while peeking down the corridor. I snuck up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder, all the while watching out for Mr. Dodd.

“I know exactly what you’re up to, sister.”

She shrieked and whirled on me. “Iris, I—I’m so sorry!”

“I see how you are, skipping out on valuable sisterly bonding time to secretly text Ben.” I scowled at her. “You’d rather exchange xoxo’s with your supercute boyfriend than watch a girlie movie with me.”

“No one xoxo’s.” She laughed, her cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry, Iris. It’s nothing personal. But the ‘Snake Dance’ sequence was just too much for me.”

“It’s—” I turned to see Mr. Dodd across the lobby. A cold, watery sensation seeped through my chest, surging to an all-out tidal wave when the crowd parted enough to let me see the long, lean frame of Peter Crown stepping from behind Mr. Dodd. Mr. Crown whispered furiously to Mr. Dodd, who was pointing in our direction. Crown turned, his steely eyes locking with mine. He mouthed something along the lines of “Get them out to the car.”