Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Abi
“So the blood packs are shipped directly to this address, every other week?” I confirmed for the third time.
“Yes,” the representative from the blood delivery company said, her voice just a tiny bit tinny over the phone line. “Our company delivers the blood directly to customers.”
“Why don’t you just use a delivery company?” I asked, confused.
Kinge had made it clear he was the only vampire in the area. Why would they go through so much trouble to deliver to him when he was a single customer, no matter how loyal?
“We ship directly to ensure product quality,” the employee explained. “And our employees drive cars with special refrigeration so the blood stays fresh and cannot be tampered with.”
I paused. “Ah, I think I finally get it.”
What the representative wasn’t saying was that they delivered the blood themselves to ensure no one could plant anything—like, say, poison—in the blood and kill off their precious clients.
“In that case, thanks for your help and for adjusting the delivery schedule. Have a great evening.”
“Thank you, you as well.”
I hummed a little as I ended the call, pleased with my work.
I’d been trying to talk to someone from the company for about a week now, but it wasn’t until today that I realized the company didn’t keep normal day hours, but rather was open during the night.
(Something that should have occurred to me before, given the clientele they served.)
“That’s another task down,” I muttered as I crossed it off my work list before pulling out the giant monthly calendar I kept for the house.
I recorded the new delivery days on the calendar, then highlighted the AC maintenance appointment for next week.
Now I just need to go over the list for Christopher one last time before he comes tomorrow, and I’ll be done for the day!
“You seem to have a thing for working late.”
I almost screamed, but I managed to hold the noise in my chest as I swung around and looked bug eyed at the entrance of my office.
Kinge stood in the doorway, leaning against one side, his arms casually folded against his chest as he studied me the way I imagine scientists study a new bug species they’d stumbled upon.
“I’m sorry, I’m intruding on your ‘me time’. What time is it?” I peered at my cellphone, intending to answer myself, then frowned when my phone said it was 5:32 PM.
I barely worked half an hour over. I couldn’t be cramping his blood vibe that much, particularly in a house this big.
Kinge surprised me when he strolled into my office and gazed at the cork board I’d hung on the wall with the many post it notes of house maintenance appointments I needed to make.
“Normally I’d say you are either rebellious or trying to pry, but you’re so diligent with your work that doesn’t seem to be the case,” he mused.
“No, no. Sorry, I was focused on finishing things up and I didn’t notice the time,” I said, feeling a little annoyed I had to apologize.
At my previous job I’d been bullied into staying at least until seven or eight p.m. most nights. To go from that to an employer who counted the very minutes I worked over my shift was mental whiplash to say the least.
Still. I need to be a good employee—no memory erasure for me! But I am a little confused why he’s here. I didn’t see him at all that first week when he managed to keep his vampire-ness hidden. He’s been popping up a lot more, now.
“I noticed,” Kinge said wryly. “You know, it is likely your tendency to overwork that is responsible for your dangerously low vitamin D levels. Probably your low iron levels, too.”
“I have low vitamin D and iron levels?”
“Very low levels,” Kinge said. “You should prioritize spending time outside in the sunlight, and get yourself some supplements.”
“I’ll have to take your word on it. I haven’t been to a doctor and had bloodwork done in ages—I never had time at my previous job.” I propped my elbows up on my desk. “But you can sense that kind of stuff?”
“I can smell it in your blood, yes. Usually it’s more subtle, and not necessarily noticeable unless one tastes it. But your levels are so poor it’s unmistakable,” Kinge said.
It occurred to me that asking a vampire about his eating habits might not be the greatest thing for my long-term wellbeing—it probably wasn’t wise to tempt him with his food. But it was all so interesting, and the little research I’d managed online was incredibly vague and generally unhelpful.
“Is smelling blood a standard vampire power, or do only the old and powerful vampires sense that kind of thing?” I asked.
I was prepared for him to refuse to answer, so I was pleasantly surprised when he dryly raised an eyebrow. “I’m not that old considering the various vampire Elders that live in North America. But, it does take some experience to smell the difference.”
“Is it like smelling different notes in coffee or wine?”
“I don’t know. Sit outside and eat some poultry or seafood and I’ll tell you.”
“Wow, you really care about your employees,” I said. “Unless I’m stinking the place up with my unbalanced blood?”
“No. With the exception of wizards, human blood smells… pleasant,” Kinge said.
I nodded as I considered his answer, and gave him time to retreat. I was gratified that I was starting to know my employer a little better, but we definitely weren’t on more than ‘employer-employee’ terms, so Kinge’s willingness to chat was probably dying.
As I expected, he drifted back to the door, having graced me with his presence long enough. However, he paused in the doorway and looked back at me. “Before you finish for the day, allow me to remind you that you are only required to work 40 hours a week.”
“I know—oh! But it’s perfect timing that you mentioned that. You said my hours were flexible and I could rearrange my schedule, right?”
Kinge eyed me. “Yes…”
“So I can apply the time I’ve worked over to my work week, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
Grateful to have any excuse to talk about my plans, I whipped out my Algoma Guide, opening it up to the necessary page and holding it out for inspection.
“In two days I’m going to try fishing! I’ve got a professional charter service lined up to head out in the early morning—apparently that’s the best time to fish. ”
Kinge briefly studied the advertisement of the fishing charter service I’d chosen before his eyes flicked up to mine. “Have you fished before?”
“Sure!” I chirped. “My grandpa loved fishing on local lakes.”
“Allow me to rephrase that… have you fished on Lake Michigan before?”
“No. Why would that matter?”
“Lake Michigan fishing is… different from fishing on a typical lake given its size.”
“Why would that make a difference?” I asked.
“Wave size, for one.”
“Pft, it’s a lake, not a sea. It’ll be fine,” I said.
It was not fine.
I plopped on the cool asphalt of the Algoma Marina parking lot, the ground rolling beneath me.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable sitting on the grass, miss?
” My charter guide, a kind man named Gibbins, nervously asked.
“There’s some right over there.” I assumed he pointed, but I couldn’t lift my head up to confirm this, my stomach sloshing in my gut made any movement feel… precarious.
“Nope. I’m fine,” I managed to say, my voice wobbling only a medium amount. I tried to breathe deeply through my nose in the hope that it might tame some of my nausea. No luck.
“Here, let me help you,” Gibbins offered.
I pressed a hand to my stomach. “Not necessary.”
“No, no, let me,” Gibbins squatted down next to me. “I already feel terrible that we barely spent any time out on the lake on account of your seasickness.”
The lake. Hah!
I’d known from my beach scouting trip that Lake Michigan was so big you couldn’t see the other side, but it hadn’t dawned on me just how far the lake stretched and what that meant for how big wave sizes could get.
Lake Michigan might be called a lake, but I personally thought it could be considered a freshwater, landlocked sea!
“Thank you, but no thank you, Gibbins. I really don’t want to move right now.
” I shut my eyes when the ground rocked beneath me—nothing had felt solid since I’d set foot on that boat.
Perhaps this was payback for so enthusiastically diving into ‘experiences’ that I hadn’t bothered to research charter fishing on Lake Michigan?
“Good morning, sir,” A woman called.
“Ah, Ms. Dupont.”
“You aren’t stressing the letters correctly, Gibbins. It’s French, Dupont,” The woman said, saying it the exact same way Gibbins had.
“Yes, ma’am,” Gibbins said as I managed to peel my eyes open.
Josephine Dupont adjusted her clothes—white joggers and a white tracksuit top that was plastered with the Prada brand name—as she wandered closer to us. The sunrise painted her in a pinky light, and—ever careful of her complexion—she still wore a hat and gloves even though it was just after dawn.
Gibbins gave the older woman a friendly nod, then turned his attention back to me. “Abi, I must insist we get you into a more comfortable place.”
“Unnecessary,” I managed to squeak out before shifting from sitting on my butt to crouching on my knees. That small movement sent a new spike of nausea through my body, making me immediately regret my actions.
“I need to go back and check that the boat is properly docked, so let me move you first,” Gibbins said.
“Nope.” I started to shake my head, then imitated a statue when the feeling renewed the rocking sensation I’d felt on the boat. “Nope, I am good. Please feel free to go check on the boat.”
“Gibbins, I shall stay with the young lady. You may return to your workday,” Ms. Dupont said as she adjusted her white, floppy sunhat.
“Thank you, Ms. Dupont,” Gibbins said. “I feel mighty relieved knowing she’s not alone. Take care, Abi. Let me know if you ever want to try fishing again.”
“I won’t, but thank you,” I said firmly.
Gibbins chuckled, and waved before he jogged back to the docks where his boat waited.
“It is most unseemly squatting out here like this. We should move elsewhere,” Ms. Dupont declared.
“No thanks,” I said as I tried breathing deep through my nose again.
The older woman huffed. “But this is hardly the place—”
“Don’t care.”
She stood silently by me for some time, then sighed in ill-disguised impatience.
“Wouldn’t a stiff drink make you feel better?
Surely some place in this town serves Bloody Marys at this hour,” she said, interrupting my internal plans to permanently relocate to this spot for the rest of my life and proving that she was very bad at empathizing with sick people.
“No, that absolutely would not help.”
“Hm. Look me in the face, girl—I can’t even see how sick you are with all your mumbling.”
I peered up at her and pondered if I should maybe let myself lose my breakfast and aim purposely for her expensive shoes. At least then we’d both be feeling miserable.
She smiled at me, but there was something plastic-y about the expression that made me—as sick and uncharitable as I was feeling—suspect she’d had work done and possibly too much Botox to top it off.
“Oh my. You are green. But I still say you’d feel better after a drink.”
I shut my eyes again and considered trying to crawl away from her on my hands and knees.
I heard the rumble of a car engine—someone must have turned their car into the marina parking lot. Great. More onlookers to witness my seasickness. If I was lucky, maybe they would hit me and put me out of my misery.
“Abi?” Someone called.
“Ah. Is she your acquaintance?” Ms. Dupont asked.
I took a deep breath and peeled my eyes open, managing to look up enough to see Daphne in a truck with the window rolled down, watching me with worry.
Even though I was practically green with seasickness I could still feel the different-ness of Daphne. Her amber eyes seemed to gleam in the early morning sun.
“Yes. I know her.” I shifted weight on my knees and my stomach sloshed—but this time a little less than it had minutes ago.
“Good,” Ms. Dupont said with feeling. “Then I shall leave her in your care, and go get a drink for myself. Being around sick people always makes me start to feel ill myself. Farewell!” A dramatic hand motion, and Ms. Dupont was off, happily on her way.
Meanwhile Daphne hopped out of her truck, followed closely after by Flint.