Jane Bites Back

small tables, each one surrounded by mismatched chairs and covered with an oily checkered cloth. The walls were bare, painted a color that probably had originally been white but had taken on a yellowish tinge. A fan hung from the ceiling, spinning slowly in the heat. A length of flypaper hung from it, coated with the bodies of its victims.

Five of the tables were occupied, mostly by men drinking from bottles of Abita beer. Byron led Jane to the lone empty table and pulled her chair out for her. She inspected the seat with her fingertips before sitting. There didn’t appear to be anything on it that would stain her pants.

“You’re in for a real treat,” said Byron. “Outsiders don’t normally get to come here.”

“Outsiders?” Jane said. “You mean tourists?”

“Of a sort,” said Byron.

Before he could explain further, they were approached by a weary-looking woman of indeterminate age. Tall and thin, her long blond hair showed more than a few inches of dark roots, and her face was unusually red.

“Byron cher,” she said. “Where you been?” Her voice was thick with a Cajun accent.

“Here and there,” said Byron. He nodded at Jane. “Emmeline, Jane. Jane, Emmeline.”

The woman nodded at Jane. “She one of yours?” she asked Byron.

Byron grinned. “Ask her that,” he replied.

Emmeline turned her gaze to Jane. Her eyes were almost black, and something about her seemed impossibly old. Then Jane realized what it was. She looked at Byron, who laughed. “Yes,” he said, “she’s one of us.” He gestured around the room. “They all are. Well, most of them.”

Jane was dumbstruck. She’d never in her life been in an establishment that was solely for vampires. “But how—” she said.

“Times have changed, Jane,” said Byron. “We don’t have to hide all the time, especially not in a town like this one. Why do you think Charlotte stayed?”

“Hear she got herself burnt up last night,” Emmeline said. “Can’t say she’ll be missed round here.”

“See?” Byron mouthed to Jane.

“You’re wanting the crawfish,” Emmeline said. Without waiting for an answer she disappeared into the back of the restaurant.

“This is all very peculiar,” Jane said to Byron.

“You’ve been away from your own kind for too long,” said Byron. “You see through human eyes.”

Jane began to object, but Byron cut her off. “It’s not an insult,” he said. “Well, perhaps it’s a little bit of an insult,” he admitted.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with trying to retain some humanity,” Jane said tartly. “After all, it’s what we were.”

“Were,” Byron repeated. “But not now. Aren’t you tired of hiding? Wouldn’t you like to live in a world where you don’t have to worry about being exposed?”

“I don’t really worry about it,” said Jane. “Besides, I have Lucy now. And Walter,” she added quickly.

“Yes, Walter,” Byron said. Jane couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was mocking her or just agreeing.

Emmeline reappeared, carrying an enormous metal bowl, which she dumped on the table. A mound of potatoes, sausage, corn, and crawfish spilled out, threatening to slide off the sides. Jane looked at it as Emmeline put down two bottles of beer, an empty bowl, and a thick stack of napkins. “Teach her how to suck heads,” she said to Byron.

Jane picked up a crawfish. Its shell was a dark red, and its little black eyes stared unseeing back at her. “What do I do with it?” she asked.

“Like this,” said Byron. He held up a crawfish, gripped the head between his thumb and forefinger, and twisted it off. He set the head aside and peeled the shell away from the body, then pinched the tiny fan at the bottom of the tail, pushing the meat up and popping the exposed flesh into his mouth. “And now for the best part,” he said, picking up the head he’d set aside. Putting it to his mouth, he sucked loudly on it for a moment before tossing it into the empty bowl.

“And that’s how you suck the head,” he said. “Go on. Try it.”

“I think not,” said Jane. “It’s very rude.”

“It’s rude not to,” Byron corrected her. “If you don’t suck the head, then everyone will know you’re an outsider.”

Jane contemplated the crawfish in her hand. Although no one in the restaurant was looking directly at her, she had the distinct impression that she was being watched. Here goes nothing, she thought as she attempted to copy Byron’s movements. The tail and head separated readily enough, and getting the tail meat out was fairly easy. It was also incredibly delicious.

The head was another matter altogether. She placed it in her mouth and sucked. Instantly her mouth was filled with a spicy blast of butter and a lump of something squishy She choked, just managing to swallow it down. She reached for a bottle of beer and drank deeply.

“What is that?” she asked, looking at the now empty crawfish head with distaste.

“Head fat,” Byron explained. “It’s the best part.” He twisted another crawfish apart and ate it. “Pinch the tail, suck the head,” he intoned. “Try another one. You’ll come to love them, I promise.”

“I’ve been on the wrong end of your promises before,” said Jane. She picked up one of the half ears of corn and bit into it. “I’ll stick with something safe.”

They ate for a while in silence. Jane decided to try another crawfish, and this time she found it much better. She ate several more, then saw that Byron was looking at her.

“I think that first one was off,” she said defensively.

“It’s nice still being able to eat, isn’t it?” said Byron. “It’s one of the few human things I still treasure. That and making love,” he added.

“I prefer being in love, thank you,” Jane retorted as she stabbed a piece of sausage with her fork.

“You seemed to enjoy it with me that night I paid you a visit,” said Byron. He sucked meaningfully on a crawfish head, licking his lips afterward.

“That was only to keep you away from Walter and Lucy,” Jane reminded him.

“So you didn’t enjoy it?” asked Byron.

Jane peered closely at the crawfish she was about to behead. “I didn’t say that,” she said.

“Then you did enjoy it?” Byron tried.

“Is there meat in the claws?” Jane asked him, looking at the crawfish’s pincers.

“I’ll take that for a yes,” said Byron. “I enjoyed it as well.”

“Of course you did,” Jane said. “You’d enjoy it with … with …” She tried to think of someone suitably unpleasant. “Oscar Wilde,” she concluded.

“Don’t know,” said Byron. “I never tried. But I don’t think it would be all that nice.”

“What if I did enjoy it?” Jane said. “What of it?”

Byron licked his fingers. “Perhaps you should ask yourself that question,” he suggested.

“Perhaps I have,” said Jane. “And perhaps what I’ve decided is that it means nothing. You mean nothing.”

“I’m hurt,” Byron said, putting his hand over his heart. “I thought we meant something to each other.”

Jane ignored him and concentrated on her dinner. Byron was once again getting her all riled up. Why was it so easy for him to do this? Why are you letting him do this? a voice in her head asked.

“I don’t know!” Jane said loudly. Realizing she’d spoken aloud, she felt her cheeks flush. “When did you start writing romances?” she asked quickly.

“Several years ago,” Byron replied. “It’s just something to do. And it brings in a little money.”

“Now that everyone knows you’re Penelope Wentz, what will you do?”

“I haven’t decided,” Byron answered. “Perhaps Penelope will write a few more novels. Perhaps she’ll disappear.”

“She won’t disappear,” said Jane. “You crave the attention. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have revealed yourself today.”