4. Barnaby

Chapter four

Barnaby

There’s a tingling in the tips of my fingers as I close up shop that night—which really just requires sweeping the floor and turning off the lights. I wonder whether the girl upstairs, Maisie, will actually read the book I sold her. She’d also chosen one of those romantasy novels, one of the few I carry simply to satisfy the fantasy enthusiasts, and I think she may have just been humoring me by buying an Anne Hadron.

Not that I care much either way. Not that I particularly want to see her again, either, when she smells like something I want to attack and devour.

It isn’t a quick walk from the bookstore to my home, but I enjoy the journey, nonetheless. Sometimes in the winter I’ll drive the distance so I don’t have to trudge through the snow, but I try to go on foot whenever possible, simply to enjoy the wildness of this place .

I follow my usual path through town, where I take a right at the park and continue into the trees. There, the footpath is no longer paved, and I maintain it with gravel so it doesn’t get too muddy.

The moon is out tonight, a perfect crescent, without a single cloud in the sky. I still marvel at the pure darkness of the night sky here, and the effervescent brightness of the stars. This is exactly the thing I needed after today—fresh air, with no humans for miles.

I have a new selection chosen for reading tonight, and I’m excited to get back and begin. It’s an acquisition that I found online, a first edition of Dragons, Witches, and Other Paranormal Oddities from 1858, complete with illustrations. It’s always interesting to me to see how my kind is portrayed throughout time, as inaccurate as it usually is.

The one benefit of the internet.

On my walk, though, I find myself thinking less about the book waiting for me and more about my curious new tenant. She made surprisingly good choices when she selected furniture from the back room—all items I might have picked myself. She was so curious and fascinated by what was on offer, and through her eyes, I saw it in a new light. I do have a marvelous assortment, and perhaps I shouldn’t let it collect so much dust.

Soon, the manse appears over the tops of the trees. I am home. Smoke is already curling in plumes from the smokestack, which means Adeline has done her job, though she’s likely gone home for the night .

Sure enough, when I enter through the front door, the house is a perfect temperature: sixty-five degrees, thanks to the central air Adeline convinced me to have installed. As requested, a fire crackles in the library.

I open the fridge, fish out one of the many milk bottles labeled with my name, and pop open the lid. Cold blood is one of many things I’ve simply gotten used to over time. I once tried heating it, but the texture became unbearable. It churns my stomach as I start sipping the dark red liquid, trying to keep the bile down as I slurp. It doesn’t even stir the monster, to drink such a grotesque thing as mere cow’s blood.

I imagine an innocent human like Maisie witnessing that transformation, and the idea of her horrified reaction makes me feel even sicker.

Once I’m as satisfied as I possibly can be with my beverage, I rinse out the glass and add it to the pile to be taken back to the butcher’s and refilled.

Then, at last, it’s off to the library. My new book is still wrapped, so I peel open the paper to reveal the treasure inside. The cover has clearly seen many hands over time, and shipping has not done the book any favors, either. I will be leaving a chastising review about that.

Once I’ve opened to the first page, I lower myself into my favorite chair, a high-backed Queen Anne with deep purple upholstery. The fire lights the pages so I can read. Before long, I’m lost in my book, immensely amused by the innocent marvel with which the narrator writes about his discovery of the world’s more frightening monsters .

We hid in the shadows for many centuries, many millennia , before this book was written. But Anton Cautière began the process of cutting open our identities and revealing us to the world. He writes with such incredulity that I cannot help but feel it, too.

We are marvels, us creatures of the darkness. I’m glad he appreciates that.

It’s past midnight when I come across the chapter that Cautière has labeled, “The Fanged Mystery,” written in a swooping font.

Here I am. My moment to shine.

Raptly, I read Cautière’s story of his first meeting with a vampire. Clearly his subject thought him little more than a humorous annoyance, as the vampire “attack” he describes does not indicate that his attacker utilized his true form. I’m rather disappointed to find that even in these pages, within this first-hand account, there is no mention at all of how fearsome we really are—what we truly hide underneath.

Still, the story leaves the reader with a healthy fear of this “creature of the night.” That is, perhaps, my favorite of all mortal misconceptions. Daylight does not hurt us; it simply makes me tired and grumpy.

I wonder if I knew this vampire who encountered Cautière. He could be an offshoot of my old coven when it dissolved. The 1800s were a tumultuous time, and so many of us were lost by the end of the nineteenth century.

It’s another two hours before I put the book away and head downstairs. Adeline has kindly cleaned my sleeping room, putting the lid back on my coffin. It was the one they attempted to bury me in when they believed me dead after my own attack. I’ve since fitted it with silk padding, though the original wood remains.

Before I fall asleep, I think of the stranger’s bouncy orange hair, like the setting sun.

Maisie

I return to the diner again the next morning to grab a bite to eat, though I’ll need to go grocery shopping today and get familiarized with the kitchenette. I could very well open the cupboards and find nary a pot or pan inside, given there wasn’t even any furniture in the apartment when I arrived.

I make a list of necessities on my phone while I eat, and it’s disconcerting not being able to text message or check my email on the go. What a weird place. I probably wouldn’t have come here if I’d known there wouldn’t be cell service .

Then again, maybe it’ll be good for me. They always say screens rot your brain or whatever, not that I’ve ever believed it. But is there really a downside to spending more of my time outdoors? From what I gathered, thanks to the map on the counter in Barnaby’s bookstore, there are tons of trails around town, and even more the farther you go up the mountain .

After grabbing my groceries, I head back to the apartment to rifle through the kitchen. Sure enough, there aren’t even forks or spoons. Every single drawer and cupboard is empty.

Fuck. I’m going to have to talk to Barnaby again, and he’s not going to be happy with what I’m asking.

I trudge down the stairs and walk around to the bookstore again, cringing when the front doorbells ring. This time, Barnaby is sitting behind the counter perched on a stool. He’s impeccably dressed in a gray collared shirt and a black vest, which shows off the taper from his broad shoulders to his slim hips. The only color on him is the blood-red tie.

I’ve never found an older man attractive before, but here we are. Damn.

“Finish that Hadron book already?” Barnaby asks, not even looking up from his book.

“Um, no.” I stand in the doorway, twisting one foot in my nervousness. “Look, there’s nothing up there. No spoons or pans or plates or anything.”

Does this man not even eat?

His chest rises with a deep sigh, and finally he lifts his head.

“Did the listing say that it came with those things?”

“I mean, no, it didn’t. But it has a kitchen that I can’t use.”

He snaps the book closed and rises from his stool. “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

All right, he’s not hot at all anymore. He’s actually irritating as hell .

But then I remember my plan: absolutely obliterate him with kindness. I won’t fall into the trap of making my new temporary landlord hate me.

“Please?” I say instead. “Then the next tenant won’t have this problem. Just a few forks, a pan, some bowls—that’s all I’m asking for.”

Barnaby levels that dark, penetrating gaze on me again, and it feels like one of those dreams where you’re naked in school even though you don’t remember showing up that way. He studies me for a long time in silence, and I bite my lip to keep from apologizing and backing off my request.

“Fine,” he says at last. “If I give you two hundred dollars, can you stock the kitchen to suit your needs ?” This final part comes out sounding like I’m a spoiled child.

I smile broadly and clasp my hands together. “That would be great.”

With a grunt, he fishes out his wallet and opens it to reveal dozens of bills. Dozens of hundred-dollar bills . Removing two of them, he hands them to me and puts the wallet away again.

“Is that all?” he asks, reopening his book and sitting down once more.

“Oh, um... yes. That’s all.” I pause in the doorway. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t acknowledge me as I leave. Once I’m outside, though, I gasp for air.

That was awkward. Hopefully this is the last time I’ll have to ask him for anything, because I don’t know if I can stand not telling him exactly what I think of him .

Still, as I walk into the apartment a few hours later with bags full of new kitchen supplies, I have to marvel at the collection of furniture here. I wonder where Barnaby acquired all of this—and most of all, I want to know what it was doing hidden in a dark back room filled with cobwebs.

Barnaby is a mystery, and like every bug I’ve ever come across, I want to know what’s inside.

Barnaby

I wish I knew more about curses so I could cast one on Mayor Louise for convincing me to become a landlord.

The new tenant came in demanding some other thing petty humans need to survive: pans and forks, which I suppose makes sense. Offering these amenities will help me rent the apartment to other vacationers in the future, and what I learn from her could be valuable in making the process as painless and impersonal as possible next time.

If there is a next time. This has all been a rather obnoxious ordeal—especially with the way she smells . It’s difficult to keep my fangs retracted, to stop my mouth from salivating.

I’d noticed many more things about her on her way out of the store: how her wide hips sashayed and showed off her backside despite her baggy shorts, how her breasts had tugged at the constraints of her T-shirt and cardigan. Why she was wearing so much in the summer, I couldn’t guess, but the appealing shape of her body was perfectly visible despite it.

Perhaps she was sent to torture me. It’s been nearly a hundred years since my last taste of human blood, and I thought I had tamed the need inside me with the cow’s blood. Well, that clearly isn’t true.

But the lust? Perhaps my hunger was simply waiting for the perfect physical specimen to appear. It’s been too long, and my instincts are no longer satisfied with such measly nutrition as cow’s blood, so my body is responding to that need. Maisie simply appeared at the right time, and her form appeals to me on a baser level.

When I’m home that night, though, I can’t stop playing back those moments we spent together. She had such a sweet, wide smile that it felt strange and alien to me. And yet, somehow, it was marvelously appealing. Her lips are just the right size, and in such a lovely bow shape. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, untainted by the centuries.

Even as I lie in my coffin in the early hours of the morning, I can’t stop thinking about her. Finally, grumbling with annoyance, I reach down and bring out my cock.

It’s just been too long since I had any kind of physical contact with another, that’s all. Paired with her scent, it’s natural my brain would react to her so strongly. I try to remember this as I carefully stroke myself, maintaining an even pressure from root to tip, but it’s impossible for my imagination not to jump back to this afternoon .

When I begrudgingly meet my climax, it’s abrupt and powerful. I groan as I spend myself, rocked by how high I went, and how almost painful it was to finish. I’m left panting, my fangs fully exposed, as I fantasize about how such sweet blood might taste.

This arrangement with the human woman is going to be difficult, I can already tell.