8. Scotty
Scotty
HAPPY DEATH DAY
The next evening, when most of the law-abiding humans, a.k.a. the boring ones, have gone to bed, I wake to the sound of vinyl crackling and a slow dripping. It would almost be kind of nice if I weren’t in a sewer right now.
Shit. I’m still in the fucking sewers with the scary Nosferatu chick who may or may not hate me. Jury’s still out on that one, though we made decent progress yesterday morning. I sit up on the damp cloth I slept on and take in my surroundings.
Juliette sits on a crate in one of the corners with a few candles lighting her canvas. She dabs the paintbrush in a shallow dish of paint and swipes it across the canvas in gentle, fluid arcs.
Now this? This I could watch for hours, and I’m starting to understand why Bob Ross was so popular.
Juli doesn’t seem to realize I’m awake yet, because she doesn’t so much as turn around.
No, this girl is locked in on the work in front of her, and I can’t help but watch in wonder as she works her magic.
I wonder where she even got all the paint from?
Does she go up to the surface and break into an art store after hours or something?
Another thing to add to my lengthy list of questions I want to ask her, I guess.
After what feels like an eternity, she begins to sing. Softly at first, and it’s more of a hum with a few words in French weaved in.
“Pretty,” I murmur.
Juliette drops her brush on the plate and spins around, her eyes fiery and wild just like the rest of her. She bares her fangs at me until recognition settles in her gaze.
I smile and rub one of my eyes, still exhausted from the day before. “Hey. Did you forget I stayed over? Wouldn’t be the first time for me, but, uh, after the night we had, I was kind of hoping I’d left a better impression.”
Juliette retracts her fangs and wipes her mouth clean with the back of her hand. I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow.
“Old habit,” she explains, as though reading my mind.
Hell, maybe she can. Maybe that’s another Nosferatu power she didn’t tell me about.
Or maybe I’m just that damn readable. Who knows.
“Back when I was new, my fangs would bleed for … for hours after using them. They only stopped doing that a hundred years ago.”
I continue smiling at her as I lean back on my palms, my legs outstretched in front of me. “Only a hundred years,” I parrot back. “Right. Yeah, I can understand, then.”
She narrows her eyes, and I’m suddenly struck by how … twinkly they are. Is that a thing? Can you describe eyes as twinkly? Fuck it. I’m gonna.
“You are teasing me,” she says, then runs her palms along her skirt, smoothing the wrinkles that aren’t even there. “Don’t.”
I regard her as carefully as one would any apex predator, and force myself not to look her in the eye. Instead, I look past her, at the painting. From where I’m sitting, it looks like just a bunch of black blobs, but what do I know? I’m no Van Gogh.
“What are you painting today?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
Juliette gives a half shrug and swivels around on her crate.
“It is nothing. Tell me…” she murmurs, and I pull my knees into my chest, not liking where this is going.
“Do you remember the day you were turned?” She picks up her brush and commits more paint to the canvas, as though she didn’t just ask a near-stranger a completely invasive and personal question.
“Kind of hard to forget something like that,” I say. The drip-drip-dripping behind me is starting to really get under my skin, though, and last night’s meal is long gone and out of my system. I need to feed. Soon. “Are you asking for any particular reason?”
Juli doesn’t answer me straight away. This woman is an adagio, taking her sweet time and building up so much tension it’s almost painful.
When she finally gets up off the crate and wipes her hands clean on her messy white apron—which is oddly adorable, I might add—I’m finally face to face with the most disturbing painting I’ve ever seen in my unlife.
Before me on the dark canvas is a distinctive face with gleaming red eyes, white pointed ears, and an angular nose that can only be described as Roman. But this is no human face I’m looking at. This is a monster.
“Nosferatu,” she says, interrupting my train of thought. “My maker, Dante.”
My eyes turn to slits, but I don’t get up from my spot on the ground. “Mm. Great. He looks like a real friendly guy. I bet he was well-loved in his community and made little children smile everywhere he went.”
Juliette scowls at me before lobbing her paintbrush at my head. It bounces off and onto the ground with a plink. “Ow,” I say, rubbing the spot on my forehead where the paintbrush hit. “Okay. Fine. I earned that.”
“You most certainly did,” she chides. “Your sarcasm is noted but not appreciated.”
“He was Italian?” I ask, and peel myself up off the floor to make my way over to the canvas.
Up close, I can see just how bloody brilliant the painting is.
Damn. This woman is … she’s not just talented, she might be an old master.
Like the painters I read about in a magazine at the gas station when shit was slow.
Move over, Vermeer. We’ve got a new master of light, here. And … it’s a woman who … never sees it.
Juliette nods with the kind of slow regret you only see from someone who has to deliver bad news.
Like a doctor after losing a patient. The whole situation is weird and off and makes me feel gnarly, but she’s clearly going through something, and I want to be there for her—because she obviously needs it.
Hundreds of years of existence with no therapist or medication?
Just raw dogging undeath while living amongst rats and piss and shit and gods know what else? No, thanks.
“Today is August twenty-seventh,” she mutters, and places her butt down on the stool again.
“Okay … yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “Honestly, I lose track of time now. I don’t know what day it is unless it’s a concert day.”
But Juliette ignores me and simply says, “It’s the anniversary of when I was turned.”
My stomach drops. Oh. No wonder the poor girl’s been so cagey this evening.
Actually, since meeting her, she’s always looked lost in her own thoughts.
Like she’s been chewing on something. Now I know why.
I say nothing. Instead, I keep my mouth shut for once and follow her lead.
There’s no telling what she might do or how she’ll react to my bullshit, and a vampire’s death day is a big deal in some circles.
Some vampire covens, if you’re in one, celebrate with cake and ice cream.
Okay, not really. They celebrate with raves and humans ripped open at their jugulars and the blood flows like champagne for hours.
I’ve never been into it. For one thing, I’ve always hated feeding on innocents.
And the people they grab for those parties are always innocent.
And for another, most of my death day celebrations have been with booze and a show, like any other day.
For Juliette, however, it seems like this day is more of a funeral.
Her funeral.
She sits there on the stool, lifelessly staring down at her hands. I have to say something, so I clear my throat and murmur, “I’m sorry. This must be hard for you.”
Juliette looks up at me, and it’s then I realize there are streaks of blood trickling down her cheeks. Instinctively, I move over to wipe the blood away with my thumbs, but I only end up streaking it across her face. “Shit, sorry,” I say. “That wasn’t supposed to—”
“It’s fine, Scotty. Thank you,” she says with a small shrug. “It’s kind of you to care this much.”
“Death days are hard,” I say. “Mine was a blur because I was hopped up on all sorts of drugs when it happened. Then my sire left me in a back alley in London. A homeless man pissed on me thinking I was a garbage bag.”
Juliette raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, and then after the homeless man left, I woke up to a few rats gnawing on my hands.” I shudder at the memory. “And by then, I was a sparkly, new vampire.” I make a face. “Not sparkly. Definitely no sparkles. Poor choice of words.”
Her eyes widen. “What did you do after that, though? Your sire, did they come back to help you?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Never did. I ate those rats, though. Every single one of them. Drained their little bodies and immediately vomited all over myself. For the next week, I staggered around from party to party. The only reason I didn’t die was because I never went out in the daylight when I was alive anyway.
I’d sleep until five in the evening every single day, get up, shoot something, and then find the next party. ”
“What do you mean by that? Shoot something?” she asks.
Ugh. Right. She doesn’t know about the wonders of heroin, thankfully, because she’s probably never … yeah. I swipe a clammy palm down my face, stare up at the ceiling, and pretend to be interested in the weird goo dripping from the bricks.
“Scotty? Are you okay?”
Her voice is so sweet and lyrical even just her speaking voice sounds like music.
Man, if I had a girlfriend like her when I was alive, there’s no way I’d be like this now, I just know it.
Probably because she’d kick my ass into submission, for one thing.
And for another, I’d want to do better by someone like Juli.
Bet she’d like picnic dates by the river.
Wonder if she’d want to do a moonlight picnic if I bring along the blood in thermoses?
Right, she asked me a question a million years ago, so I should probably say something.
“Heroin,” I finally answer. “It’s a hard drug. I was really, really into it back when I was alive. It’s hard to explain, but it gets you high and takes all your pain away…” I snap my fingers. “Just like that.”