The Eternal Kiss: Vampire Tales of Blood and Desire

“You think I’m better off sticking with Josh?” Christian asked. “He won’t even talk to me.”

Bradley shrugged, leaning against the shiny, black marble countertop and taking a sip of chai tea. He looked rumpled and perfectly at home in his white cashmere sweater, in this overly-expensive house, among glass-fronted cupboards with crystal glasses and matching plates inside them.

“I know things are a bit rough for you, man.”

He took another sip of tea, then spat it out and dropped the cup when Christian pinned him up against the wall, one arm against his throat. He certainly knew his own strength: the pamphlets had informed him of it painstakingly and at length. He knew his arm must feel like an iron bar to Bradley, unyielding, cutting off his supply of air.

“What do you know,” he hissed through bared teeth, “about how rough things are for me?”

Bradley made a strangled sound and clawed at Christian’s arm.

Christian tilted his head the way Faye had taught him so that his fangs glittered, long and sharp, hovering far too close for comfort.

“You have no idea! You people are not my friends. I don’t have friends, and I don’t have a family anymore, because I am no longer human. But I do have the ability to rip out your throat and drink you down like a milkshake, so I suggest you shut your mouth and stay out of my business!”

He let Bradley go, shoving him backward so he hit the wall, but not as hard as Christian would’ve liked. Bradley staggered but stayed upright.

Christian let his lips skin back over his fangs.

“She said that we were going to be together,” Christian said tightly. “And I—I want to believe her. So just leave out the groupie talk.”

Bradley nodded, slowly, and they stared at each other until Faye came in, stilettos tapping. Christian couldn’t help but notice she’d bought a lot of shoes with pointed wooden heels since they’d first met.

He was pretty sure it was just a scare tactic.

“What is going on here?” Faye inquired sharply. “If you boys feel the urge to wrestle, you will do it under my supervision, in a fountain, with key members of the press present!”

The microwave pinged. Bradley popped it open and took out a mug. He pushed it along the counter in Christian’s direction.

It was a mug full of heated blood, a smiley face with tiny fangs on the front. Written underneath it were the words: WE’RE FANG-TASTIC!

Christian picked up the mug, curling his cold fingers around its warmth and feeling simultaneously guilty and overcome by how ridiculous Bradley was.

Eventually he muttered, “Thanks,” into the cup. Bradley just nodded.

* * *

He had arranged to meet Laura under the tree from last night. He had it all planned. He had left his stupid cape at home, though if Faye found out she’d probably stake him and put his ashes onstage in an urn. And the cape.

He’d thought Laura might be standing under the tree, her back to him, and her hair might be loose and rippling red. The leaves would frame her, moonlight gilding them and her alike, and she’d turn around and smile.

It all happened exactly like that, aside from the two other girls. They were a rather big difference, and sort of spoiled the vision. One of them had wild bright-blonde hair and the other had wild pitch-black eyelashes, and they reminded Christian of the girls at school who’d either sneered at him or seemed honestly unaware he existed.

He disliked them both on sight. The fact that their presence interfered with his plans to kiss Laura “hello” might have had something to do with it.

“Oh my God,” said the wild blonde. “It is Chris. Oh my God!”

“He’s not wearing the cape,” said the wild eyelashes. She sounded extremely disappointed. “And he’s not—” She gestured to her face.

“That was makeup,” said Christian. “I don’t wear it every day.”

“You should,” Eyelashes told him seriously. “It makes you look much better.”

“I can’t believe you were telling the truth!” Blondie exclaimed.

“I was,” Laura said.

Laura looked small and uneasy. Christian felt the impulse to rescue her, put his arm around her and fold her tight against him, but she was lingering close by the other girls as if drawn in by the pull of their gravity. They towered over her, shimmering and confident.

“Of course she was telling the truth,” Christian said.

Laura threw him a smile, grateful and sweet. “These are my friends, Haley and Rochelle. Um, I said that they could—maybe—I mean, can they come to the party too?”

Christian’s mum had raised him to be polite. “Um,” he said. “That sounds like—fun.”

Eyelashes and Blondie (he thought Eyelashes was Haley and Blondie was Rochelle) each grabbed hold of one of Christian’s arms.

“Sooooo,” said Haley, “will the rest of the band be at the party?”

Christian found himself disliking the fawning way she said band, like it was an entity apart from, and more important than, them as individuals.

“Yes.”

“Will Bradley be there?” Haley pursued, a sudden glassy look in her eyes.

“Yes, the whole band will be there,” Christian said patiently.

The entire walk back was like an interview, in which Haley-Eyelashes indicated she was deeply disappointed in him for not knowing basic and vital facts like Bradley’s favorite color.

Christian was massively relieved when they reached the house. Every window was shining, and the house itself appeared to be swaying gently from side to side, as if someone had got it intoxicated.

Haley squealed and dragged Christian by brute force toward the door, where Faye’s usual doorman Terence was standing outside, looking burly. He did that well.

“Hey, Chris.”

“Um,” said Christian. “They’re all with me.”

“Respect,” said Terence, and gave him two thumbs up.

Christian took a moment to be deeply thankful that vampires could not blush, and walked into the hall. The carpet was squishing oddly under his feet. A man wearing a papier-mâché elephant head dashed across the hall and up the spiral staircase. Somewhere upstairs people were applauding.

“Ah, I see Pez’s friends are here,” said Christian, as he and his strange and awful harem climbed the spiral stairs after the elephant-headed man.

“This is so cool,” said Rochelle. “Hey, do you drink the blood of the other members of the band?”

“What? No, I certainly do not!” Christian exclaimed, scandalized.

“Really?” Rochelle asked. “Not any of them? Not even Bradley’s?”

“Especially not Bradley’s!”

“You two are so funny,” Rochelle told him, laughing, and pressed his arm. “Like that one interview in Just Pretend We’re Twenty-One, when you were all asked to name your favorite person in the band. Bradley said you, and Josh said Bradley, and Pez said Bradley, and you said you just hated Bradley. That was so funny!”

“No, you see, I actually do hate Bradley,” Christian explained.

“So funny,” Rochelle repeated, shaking her head.

They were at the top of the stairs now, and witness to the conga line forming down the gallery. Someone had constructed Bradley a throne out of gilt-painted cardboard and he was drinking something out of a pineapple.

“Hey, Chris!” he called out, waving his pineapple.

“Bradley!” screeched Haley, in a voice that vibrated in weird and terrifying ways. She let go of Christian’s arm and barreled her way through the conga line.

Christian hoped Rochelle would follow her, but Rochelle stayed hanging onto his arm. Laura just stood on Rochelle’s other side, nervously hovering. Christian’s attempts to establish eye contact were foiled by Rochelle’s hair.