Jane Goes Batty

“You wound me,” Byron said. “You know I wish you nothing but success. Why, I bought six copies of Constance to give as gifts.”

“Be that as it may, you’re still gloating. Might I ask how your writing is going?”

“Splendidly,” Byron answered. “I just finished the latest Penelope Wentz novel. It’s called The Scent of Love.”

Jane stifled a snort. Her opinion of Byron’s recent literary efforts was not high. But she envied his sales. Although Constance had sold extraordinarily well, Byron’s Penelope Wentz novels did even better.

“It’s about a parfumeur who has had her heart broken one too many times,” Byron continued, ignoring her. “Yet she manages to create scents that make people fall wildly in love. Then one day a man comes into her shop and asks her to make a perfume that will remind him of his beloved wife, who died tragically a year before. Our heroine does, of course, but in the process she falls in love with the grieving widower and finds herself altering the formula to make him fall in love with her.”

“Scandalous,” Jane remarked.

“Isn’t it?” said Byron. “Of course the gentleman does fall in love with her, and then she doesn’t know if he really loves her or if it’s merely the scent. She hates herself for tricking him. Yet she really does love him. What can she do?”

Jane shook her head. “That is a puzzle,” she said.

“Naturally the only solution is for her to stop wearing the perfume and see if he remains in love with her,” Byron concluded. “Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, and they live happily ever after.”

“I believe I smell another bestseller,” said Jane dryly.

“Very amusing,” Byron replied. “I have to write something to keep myself living in the style to which I’ve become accustomed. Heaven knows we don’t see any royalties from our real books.”

“I consider Constance a real book,” Jane told him.

“You know very well what I mean,” said Byron. “How many copies of Pride and Prejudice did you sell last year?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jane said. “Anyway, why are you here?”

“He came to moon over the twins,” said Lucy, brushing past Byron. She stood by the desk as she sorted through the day’s mail.

“Have you been able to talk any sense into Ned?” Byron asked.

“You mean Ted,” Lucy answered as she handed a postcard to Jane. “Ned’s the one you turned.”

Byron made a face. “I can never remember,” he said.

“And no, I haven’t,” said Lucy. “Frankly, I’m sort of surprised. I would have thought the gay one would be all excited about staying young forever. It seems more their thing somehow.”

“This is all I get?” Jane asked Lucy. “A postcard announcing a half-price sale at Bed Bath and Beyond?”

“I could try getting them drunk again,” Byron said thoughtfully.

“You keep out of it,” said Jane as she dropped the postcard into the trash. “It’s bad enough you turned … Ted?” she asked, looking at Lucy.

“Ned,” Lucy said. “Honestly, is it really so hard?”

“Ned,” Jane continued, ignoring her and speaking to Byron. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“It was a momentary lapse in judgment,” Byron argued. “He read my work so beautifully.”

“Oh, well then,” said Jane. “That’s perfectly understandable.”

“Would you two please shut up,” Lucy hissed. “They’re right outside.”

Byron and Jane looked at her with wounded expressions. Lucy, unmoved, held up a finger. “Not another word about turning anyone,” she said to Byron. She looked at Jane. “And yes, that’s all the mail for you today. I’ll handle the rest. And anyone else would be ecstatic about getting half off a duvet or waffle iron or whatever, so don’t give me that look.”

Byron watched her leave. “She’s quite a girl, isn’t she?” he remarked.

“Yes, she is,” said Jane.

“Pity she doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Byron said.

“We’ve been through this before,” said Jane. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not talking about myself,” Byron said. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Did you really come here just to see that boy?” asked Jane.

Byron shook his head as he shut the door. “Well, that was an incentive,” he admitted. “But I really came to congratulate you on your vanishing yesterday.”

“Well, thank you,” Jane said. “I did a rather neat job of it, I think.”

Byron shook his head. “I’ve seen year-old vampires who could dematerialize more successfully,” he said. “But it’s a start.”

“Beast!” Jane exclaimed. “You can’t expect me to do it instantly. I’m not a trained dog, for heaven’s sake.”

“You won’t always have time, Jane,” Byron said. “What would you do if you were confronted by a vampire killer?”

Jane sighed. “I would glamor him—or her—as much as possible and then summon you to deal with the problem.”

“You can’t,” said Byron. “I’ve been staked. You’re on your own.”

“Oh, bother. Well, I suppose I could drain him—or her—myself, but you know I draw the line at murder.”

“You did kill Our Gloomy Friend,” Byron reminded her.

“She was already dead,” said Jane.

“You didn’t know that at the time,” Byron countered. “You thought she was a psychotic blogger who was trying to blackmail you.”

Jane huffed. “Anyway, I didn’t push her into that fire. She fell. And she came back and tried to kill us, in case you’ve forgotten.” She paused, remembering Lucy’s earlier question. “Speaking of Our Gloomy Friend, I wonder where she is. Do you think she’ll try again? It’s been nine months.”

“That’s barely a second in vampire time,” Byron answered. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was planning something. But that’s even more reason for you to perfect your vanishing. When you are faced with someone wishing to do you harm, the best course of action is to simply disappear.” He looked thoughtful. “Of course, you could always transform yourself into a bat, but—”

“A bat?” Jane exclaimed. “I thought that was a myth.”

Byron shook his head. “No, it’s quite true. But it’s a very advanced technique. You’re not nearly ready for it.”

“What else can I turn into?” asked Jane.

“That’s it,” said Byron. “Just a bat. And no, I don’t know why. That’s just how it is.”

“But if one can turn into a bat, then doesn’t that suggest that the power of transformation might be more widely—”

“A bat,” Byron repeated sternly. “Not a cat, not a wolf, not a giant sloth. A bat. And you can’t even do that. Not until you master disappearing.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a larger goal,” said Jane. “Perhaps I just needed some incentive. I mean, a bat … well, that’s something.” A thought occurred to her. “What kind of bat?” she asked.

Byron sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “A vampire bat, I suppose.”

“But there are lots of kinds of bats,” Jane countered. “Fruit bats. Spotted bats. Little brown bats. And of course the flying foxes, which aren’t foxes at all but—”

“Tell you what,” Byron interrupted. “One night I’ll turn into a bat and you can look me up in a field guide.”

“Don’t think I won’t,” said Jane. “Now let me try disappearing again.”

“No,” Byron said. “I don’t want trying; I want doing. Go