#28: Animal Instincts

Hey, look, it's my ex-gir - OH, GOD, WHAT IS THAT SMELL?

            Call me a coward, if it makes you feel better. 

            After leaving Angie-Bee’s house, I had gone back to the room I had spent December 7^th in.  The furniture was still gone so that Flynn and Jackson could fix it up.  They weren’t too excited about that and had been pushing back the work to “later” every time Gina mentioned it.  This meant that all the damage I had done was, ironically, intact.

            In some areas, the carpet was strewn about the floor in shreds of red shag.  A large chunk of wood had been ripped from the windowsill, and the teeth marks there provided me enough evidence to explain the oaken taste still in my mouth.  But the door was the worst.  I remembered standing there when the last stage hit.  I did not remember clawing at it with the ferocity that I could see now.  Deep gouges ran along the grain of the wood, some of them nearly a foot long.

            No one tried to stop me from leaving.  After I had gathered my few belongings, I just walked out the front door without anyone stopping me.

            Yes, it was close to midday.  That’s what I loved about New York in December: it snowed.  My black wool coat was meanly for aesthetics, for looks, since I couldn’t feel the cold of the snow on my skin anyway.

            Just so you know, though, I am not about to tell you it was for Angie’s best interest that I left or that I needed to be alone so I could compose some rock ballad expressing how bad I felt that we lived in two different worlds.  I didn’t do this because I was afraid or because I wanted to give her a life.  I knew that, and you should, too.

            But there comes a time in (un)life where you don’t have a choice anymore, and you just have to go to the library.  Yes, the library.

            Your laughter isn’t making me want to hurt you any less.

            The New York Public Library was one of the most famous in the world, especially if you were looking for information.  If you knew who to talk to at the desk, if you knew how to persuade her just right, and if you knew what exactly you were looking for, it was quite easy to get to the book of vampire histories hidden in the depths of the library.  I was lead to the archives by an elderly woman and a youthful boy who was preparing to take her place on her parting.  These two were members of an elite group of humans aware of our presence, kept mortal by us simply because it was most convenient.  The aged woman pulled a ring of keys out and unlocked the archives’ door.

            There were, in this room, plenty of dictionaries, encyclopedias from 1848 to 1963, and medical journals to research anything a mortal would question.  But I was not mortal.

            The old lady opened another door, seemingly normal.  It was just another part of the library, after all.  Yet it was inside this next room that one of the vampires’ most treasured items was secured.  I thanked the woman, who nodded and reminded me to lock the door while I was there and again when I left.  Then she and her boy left, and I was alone.

            In the center of the dusty room, there stood a dusty podium on which laid a dusty old book, thick and tattered from an endless cycle of use and neglect, use and neglect.  The Old Tome.  Without dusting it off, I opened the cover and began my work.

            The table of contents was massive.  A list of our weaknesses, stories of our more famous faces like Old Man Dracula.  I chuckled at his name: Vlad Tepes Dracula.  If he could only have seen me then, I thought.  Regardless, I pressed on.  There was mention of werewolf history and a legend about some kind of garnet or ruby.  At last, I found the entry I needed, listed as page 1530.

            I flipped page after page, catching glimpses of a mist here, tree there, Vlad’s face on a third page, until I found what I was seeking.  Transformation.

            You see, there are infinite legends about how we turn people.  Some say that you must be bitten then fed vampire blood, which is mystic, but we really don’t bleed, so that’s useless.  However, The Old Tome lists one way and one way only to turn a human.  On the other hand, it has about ten ways to prevent a victim from turning, including (but not limited to) dismemberment, burning, snapping the neck, and a stab to the back base of the neck between vertebrae.  I also learned that, in the rare cases when the victim did not die, a bite could cause such side effects as acute senses and light aversion.  Upon reading this, I sent good thoughts to Angie-Bee in hopes that she was not suffering from any of these symptoms.

            I closed the book with a thump, sending dust every which way throughout the room.  I misted out of the room through the crack under the door, looking around to make certain the room was empty before I materialized again.  I marched up the stairs, away from the archives, and waved quickly to the librarian before leaving.

            I didn’t get far.

            “Desmond,” a clear, feminine voice called behind me.

            I turned on my heel to see an olive-skinned girl with black hair that bounced in ringlets around her oval face.  Dark sunglasses shielded her eyes, and she wore a rich mink jacket over her long black dress.  Next to her and slightly behind, a man with a slumped back followed diligently, eyes alert to anything that might touch the woman.  His attire was much less formal, though his features were easily as attractive to a woman as the dark girl’s looks were to me.  His hunter green eyes were set close together on his head, his mud-colored hair combed back flat, and a wild and nervous look on his face.  I would guess he was Italian.  But the stink of him!

            “I’m sorry,” I said as I held my breath against the pair, “but do I know you?”

            The woman’s smile vanished and was immediately replaced by a faux pout.

            “Really, Des?  After all this time, you’re still not speaking to me?  How upsetting!  And here I hoped we were past that.”

            I groaned, finally recognizing the drama-queen before me.

            “Emma Jean-,” I started.

            “Oh, you do remember!” she beamed, looking at me over the top of her glasses with black eyes.  “See, I was afraid I would have to hurt you!”

            “What do you want?” I snarled.

            “Well!  Here’s the thing,” she sighed, glancing around, “it’s not a- not a human matter now, is it?  How about we talk over coffee?”

            “We can’t drink coffee,” I breathed.

            She giggled in her annoying way, and cooed, “But Puppy can.  Puppy likes his coffee, don’t he?”

            The man trailing her smiled and blushed.

            “I like coffee,” he answered with a gleaming eye, and I could not tell if he was being influenced or if he was just stupid.

            “Please, Des?  It won’t take long.  I would hate to keep you from your human.”

            I snapped, “How did you-?”

            “Because I have eyes.  And there’s this guy in the hospital who owes Carlo a favor, so we had him plant a recorder.  Hey, Carlo, did we ever get that back?”

            Something tightened in my gut, so I nodded my agreement and motioned for her to follow me.

            While we could not eat or drink human food, I sometimes enjoyed the smells, which is why I knew where most of the coffee shops were in Manhattan and Queens and which one had the best coffee.  It just so happened to be one of those ma-and-pa shops that also had fresh muffins and cakes daily.  Sometimes, when I was in an especially good mood, I bought a drink myself to enjoy, smelling it as I dipped down for fake sips.  It was here that I took Emma Jean and her - well - pet.

            I walked up to the counter where a twenty-some-year-old girl was going through papers.

            “Hello, miss.  Is your private room open today?”

            She looked up at me, confused, and said, “Reservation only.”

            I caught her watery eyes with mine.

            “I thought we made one,” I whispered.

            “Ah,” she murmured, her eyes glossing over, “this way.”

            She stepped from behind the counter to lead us to a private room that they used for large parties of writers and starving poets.  Emma Jean tapped my shoulder.

            “Well done,” she grinned.

            I smirked back.  Apparently, she still didn’t know all my secrets.

            “Can I get you anything?” the waitress asked us opening the door.

            “Espresso,” I told her.

            “Café au lait, please,” the man chimed in.

            The waitress smiled at us.

            “One moment!”

            So we all sat at one of the three booths in the room, Emma Jean and the man across from me.  I crinkled my nose at him, though I tried not to.

            “What?” he barked.

            “Do you bathe?”

            The man’s green eyes flashed gold as he lunged forward, growling, and I flinched from some fear I hadn’t known before.  Instantaneously, Emma Jean had her arms wrapped around him tightly to restrain him, both their muscles tense, and whispered in his ear so I could barely hear.  I knew that she was using all her strength to hold him back.

            And all that happened in three seconds.

            “You don’t wanna do that, Carlo,” Emma Jean breathed.  “You don’t want that.  You’ve done so much, Carlo; he’s not worth losing that over.  You don’t stink, baby.  He’s lying.  Just ignore him.”

            “I don’t wanna do this anymore,” Carlo wavered, his hands shaking.  “I don’t wanna be like this.”

            “I know, baby, I know.  We just have to make the best of it, okay?  You just need to control your temper.”

            “But he-!”

            “He didn’t mean it,” Emma Jean breathed, “did you, Des?”

            I shook my head, “No.  Emma Jean, is that a good idea?  Dating a werewolf?”

            “You’re dating a human,” Carlo sneered.  “At least I don’t live in the hospital.”

            Emma Jean sighed, “Des, really.  I needed to talk to you.”

            “It’s good to see you’ve gotten over me, at least,” I smirked.

            “Okay,” Emma Jean growled back, “first of all, I dumped you.  Secondly, this,” she gestured at the table vaguely, “is not about that.  Third, I dumped you so hard you spent a month as Mr. Melodrama.  Okay?”

            I grumbled but nothing more.  The door creaked, and we all turned to see the waitress entering with two tall mugs on an overly-large tray.

            “Here we are,” the waitress beamed, handing out the cups.  “One espresso and one au lait.”

            “Thank you, ma’am,” Carlo mumbled.

            The waitress left us alone again.  Carlo began to slurp at his coffee as I stirred mine.  Emma Jean leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin on her hands.

            “You know Dracula wanted you long before he managed to get at you?” she whispered.

            I faked that I didn’t care.  Inside, though, I was frightened, asking if it was true and, if it was, why.

            “You’re special, you know,” Emma Jean continued.  “You’ve got a lot of raw talent, a lot of power.  A lot of stuff.”

            “That so?”

            “Yeah.  I’ve been around a while, Desmond,” she explained, “and I’ve never seen him want anyone as much as he wanted you.  He said it was your potential, but I think it was your relatives, namely their possessions.”

            Here I scoffed, telling her, “I don’t even know my family.  They’re dead.”

            “Oh, I know.  Just- just hear me out.”

            I crossed my arms at her, but she took a deep breath and continued.

            “When he sent Eddy and Nick to go watch you, I followed them.  And while I wish I could un-see what I saw, it was worth it.  We were watching you before the Civil War even started.  You, your mother, your sister… you were different.  You could see us.

            “See, there’s this gemstone, the Soul Garnet, and we think your mother owned it.  You three just knew, for no reason, when we were around.  Your father didn’t, though.  He would talk for hours to Edmund about trading cotton without ever even getting suspicious.  Dracula didn’t want to risk you defending your family, so while you were still dead, they took your memory away.  At least, I guess that’s what happened.  I only saw you run after them during a battle, thinking they were Union and knowing they were no good.  The cannons deafened me; I couldn’t even hear your screams.

            “They wanted the Soul Garnet.  Dracula thinks he needs it, that it will give him the ability to take control of all the vampire covens.  We can’t let that happen.”

            “One,” I said, “why not?  Two, what do I do about it?”

            “One,” Emma Jean mimicked, “because he could be right, but more likely, he’ll destroy the rival covens and the humans with them.  Two, I’m not sure yet.  I’m working that out.  I just wanted you to know that there’s a reason that everyone is watching you and Angelica.”

            She stood up swiftly.  Carlo glanced up from his empty cup at her.

            “We must be leaving.  I’m sure you have enough to think about for now, Des.”

            “Emmy…” Carlo asked.

            “Hush, puppy.  You lost your temper today, after all,” she reminded him.  “You need to be punished for that, don’t you think?”

            Without second though, Carlo was on his feet and pressed closely to Emma Jean.  I didn’t blame him.  That reminded me.

            “Why didn’t you tell me this when we were dating sixty years ago?” I asked.

            “Oh,” Emma Jean gasped, “it was fifty-seven years, for one.  And it was because you were too young.

            Having said this, she turned on her heel and led the werewolf away from me.  I stirred my coffee some more, savoring the scent of the roasted beans and the calming effect they had on me.  I had needed it for months, but hadn’t found the time.  And it gave me time to reflect.

Three things weighed heavily in my mind as I thought about Emma Jean’s words.  First, I was certain to be hunted down by every last vampire in the city.  Second, the Soul Garnet had to be kept from Dracula.

            Third, Angie-Bee had to die.

Author's Note

Given that a normal chapter here is three to five pages, and this one is nine...

Sweeeeet...

And Angie had a boyfriend! She's like a sixth my age! Don't judge me!

Reviews

[Tory]

"Without second though,...." did u mean without second thought? also, why were u looking for vampiric symptoms in the first place if u didn't know I was having any?