CHAPTER TWENTY
LILA MURPHY
But why the ‘pessimistic’ werewolf, though?
VIGGO RASSMUSSEN
Wouldn’t you be? If you were a werewolf?
Vampire Falls. Season two, episode sixteen – “Come Back Moon”
“That’s a word for it.”
“This stuff happens to you a lot, right?” he asks, sitting down, a book tucked under his arm.
“Only when Charlie Chamberlain is around to witness it, apparently.”
“The hero guy?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“Damon sure likes him.” I frown at the casual address. Is it just me who full-names Damon Van Schwartz? “I mean, he’s kind of looked after him this weekend, right? Since he did CPR or whatever.”
I roll my eyes.
“Can we talk about something else?”
“You brought him up, but sure,” he says.
“I didn’t bring him up.” Fake McKinley raises his eyebrows at me, and I slump forwards on the chair.
“Fine, I brought him up, but only because he and his red-headed sidekick are ruining my life, so I have him in my peripherals to anticipate his next move. It’s bad enough that he swans around at school like he’s the king of swans, or whatever, but now he’s here swanning around. At my sanctuary.”
“You really like all this that much?” he asks, running a finger around the neck of his costume.
“This?”
“The convention. The show?”
“I don’t just like it, I love it. Usually.” My soul normally swells with affection when I talk about Vampire Falls, but it just feels limp, like a deflated balloon, punctured by a sharp fingernail. “But yeah, it’s my heart. You must get that?”
“I guess,” he says.
“Sorry, this is obviously your first convention,” I say, remembering he’s new to the show. “Are you loving it?”
“It’s a lot to take in. There are so many people and you’re all, like, really, really big fans.”
“Guilty. But that’s kind of the idea.”
“I know. I know, it’s just . . .” he watches a couple of succubus (succubi?) squeal at their latest autographs over flat whites. “It’s kind of intense.”
“It can be, for a first-timer, but we were all newbies once. You just have to let yourself lean into it. There’s no judgement here.
This entire group, wherever they’re from, whatever they’re going through, is connected by a shared love.
It’s more than a fandom; it’s a family. We look out for each other.
” I look at my watch. “Most of the time. I can’t believe Roxy left me for a phone call. ”
“Maybe it was an emergency?” he offers.
“More of an emergency than this?” I say. He looks around, biting his lip as he watches everyone rush through the foyer. “You don’t have to sit with me if you want to go.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “I think I’ve had my crowded room quota for the day.”
He puts the paperback on the table and leans back. I pull the book towards me. I’d recognise the cover upside down and back to front, stuck in any type of household furniture.
“I love the Lock Keeper trilogy,” I say, looking at the cracked cover. “I read it every summer. What do you think of it?”
“I’m actually enjoying it,” he says, nodding. “The characterisation is excellent.”
“Gloria Hannigan’s the best,” I say, running my finger over the scratched letters of her name. “She was actually a writer on the show for the first few seasons, but she’s a full-time author now. She’s Irish and moved back there from Hollywood.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” he asks.
“I’m a Vampire Falls fan: I make it my business to know,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
He smiles at me. “I follow her on Instagram. She runs this writing fiction course once a year, and her best students get to do a residential at the Penrose Hackett Library in Ireland. It’s where she got the inspiration for the Draíleabh Athenaeum in season two. It looks incredible.”
“Sounds really cool, Eliza,” he says.
He smiles tightly and clears his throat, then there’s the tiniest moment of awkward silence across the table until I remember it’s his birthday.
“Oh yeah. This is for you,” I say, almost dislodging some thoracic vertebrae by reaching down for my backpack. I rummage inside. “Sorry, it’s not my best work, but it’s the law that you have to wear a crown on your birthday.”
He takes the mostly crushed crown I made using manicure scissors, a hotel room notepad and a ton of gold sparkly eyeshadow (do NOT tell Roxy).
“Thank you,” he says, nodding. “That’s really sweet.”
He smiles at me, but his eyes seem emptier than I’ve seen them before. His hands shake as he fiddles with the crown and there’s a sheen across his forehead. He’s either suffering from heat exhaustion, or there’s something else going on.
“Are you OK? Do you need a drink of water or something?” He nods, and I go to stand and remember my predicament. “Oh, um . . .”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine.”
“I can shout for them to bring one over?” I suggest. He shakes his head, his smile wavering and his eyes darting around the room. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
He looks at me. Tears glisten in his brown eyes, and I blink at him, a huge lump forming in my own throat. If I knew him better and I wasn’t currently trapped in a chair, I’d be wrapping him in a huge hug right now. He takes a deep breath, grimacing as if the air is peppered with broken glass.
“I’ve been kind of in the middle of . . . an anxiety attack for a couple hours now,” he says, his vocal cords strangling his words so they come out tight and muddled. He shakes his head. “Reading sometimes helps but . . . I . . . I’m sorry, it’s . . .”
He grimaces as the cappuccino machine hisses loudly.
“Hey, it’s OK, let me . . .” I say, pushing myself back from the table. “Come with me; I know a place.”
I take a deep breath, grab the underside of my chair with both hands, then pull myself up until I’m standing. Or semi-standing. Wearing a backwards chair. I shuffle from my spot, offering sorrys and excuse mes as I stumble through the coffee shop.
“Are you there?” I call over my shoulder. “Are you following me?”
“Um, yes.”
I ignore the very strange looks as I amble across the foyer and down a long corridor.
The convention noise starts to hush, and we reach a pop-up banner that reads Press Pause.
We walk into a medium-sized room with roof lights and bifold doors letting actual outside light and air in.
People slumped on beanbags do a little double-take at my chair situation but look back at their books or phones.
“Where are we?” whispers Fake McKinley.
“Chill-out area. For when convention life gets too much. Roxy has been here many, many times.”
He nods and walks over to the doors that open onto the hotel grounds, and his chest fills with air. I give him a minute then follow him, careful not to trip on any beanbags.
“OK?” I ask, my back and thighs protesting against my weird body position.
“I think it’s passing,” he says, nodding. “Happens sometimes. Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” I say, trying not to think how fucking weird we look right now: someone with a chair stuck around their thighs talking to a headless werewolf. Anyway.
He takes a deep breath and puts his hand on his chest as he smiles weakly at me.
“Sorry,” he says again, his skin pale.
“Don’t apologise,” I say. “We don’t even need to talk. You’re cool.”
“Thank you.” He runs a hand through his hair and tries a laugh, but it comes out empty. “I’m knackered now.”
He slumps against the door, making it wobble ominously. He needs to get off his feet but all the seats are occupied and I’m not sure he’d get up from a beanbag. I look for somewhere else he can sit before he collapses.
Duh, Eliza.
“Sit down,” I offer, turning away from him and sitting back on my chair.
“Huh?”
“There’s room, isn’t there?” I say, craning my neck. “My bum isn’t that big. Despite what some people might imply.”
He frowns at the chair like I’m tricking him into mounting a wild stallion. He raises his eyebrows at me.
“It’s honestly fine,” I say, shuffling forward a little. He lowers himself onto the seat so we’re sitting back-to-back. I turn away so I’m not right in his face. “See?”
I feel his back muscles start to relax, and I think he’s nodding. He doesn’t say anything for a few beats, then he lets out a long sigh.
“It’s actually kind of nice,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me. “Weird, but nice.”
“Maybe they’ll put that on my gravestone,” I say.
“They should,” he says. We turn to look at each other, and I’m relieved to see the colour returning in his cheeks. “Thank you for this.”
“Any time,” I say, totally meaning the sentiment but maybe not the literal set-up.