Page 30 of Falling for a Villainous Vampire

I can still see all the lines it left on his wrists and throat behind my eyes. The way he was smoldering, slightly, as I exited the living room. So of course I know, by this point, that Phone is correct. That somehow, the spell has done something to him. Magically bonded him to me, maybe. Left him vulnerable somehow, to the point where he believes I’m his only hope to get out of whatever this is. Though when I suggest that to Phone, as we lie together with me on one pillow and her on the other, she doesn’t seem sure.

“Or maybe he just used to be that kind of person,” she says.

Like hell, I think. But I don’t say that.

“What kind of person? What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s obviously reverted to some ancient vampire Viking state. Could be that he was very different then. Much more romantic and passionate. Full of ballads and pledges to return from some terrible war to avenge his beloved.”

I try not to picture it when she says it. But it comes over me anyway in a big, ridiculous wave. Halsten with long, flowing hair, standing on the prow of a massive ship, inexplicably wearing a shirt open to the waist, singing something amazing in a booming baritone. Though somehow, the only amazing things I can think of are songs exclusively sung by Meat Loaf.

And sort of hate myself for it. He’s just not that. He’s not.

“If you had ever met the real Halsten you would be embarrassed to say this.”

“Just because I think he may have been different doesn’t mean I trust him or think this is all a great thing. If anything, it only makes me feel that you should be more cautious. More careful. You can’t let any of this get to you.”

“How could it? He hasn’t stirred since I tied him to the torment chair.”

“Maybe he’s broken free of it. Maybe he’s getting ready to say even more insane things to you, but this time in ballad form,” she says, voice getting more and more falsely confident as she goes.

It makes me confident to contradict her.

“I’ll take that bet.”

“I triumph and you have to let me spend my winnings on June’s Journey.”

“You and June’s fucking Journey,” I grumble as I snatch her up and clamber off the bed. I head to the door. Though it’s only when I get there that I realize exactly how little I’m starting to believe there’s any danger.

Because I didn’t prepare myself.

I didn’t ready a weapon. I have no silver on me; I’m not braced for the attack that should be coming. I didn’t even think to change out of my sleepwear and into something more robust. My legs are literally bare, these shorts are as thin as paper, my tank top barely contains my cleavage.

If he launches himself at me I’m gonna end up even more nude than last time.

Yet somehow I didn’t consider any of that. I have to actually force myself to be cautious. To do a location-of-enemies spell before I stroll right into the living room and get shredded. And I’m glad I do, too, because oh, guess what?

He’s not in there. He’s not tied to his chair, he’s not asleep.

He’s somewhere else, doing fuck knows what.

“I told you so,” Phone hisses at me when the location-of-enemies orb gives me its report on what’s going on in there. But I don’t get a chance to apologize, or even think about why she knew and I didn’t. Because after a moment, she asks me the following bizarre question: “Is that the beloved nineties sitcom Friends I can hear faintly playing away to itself?”

To which I say, “No, of course not.”

I try to laugh, and scoff at the very idea.

Who could have even turned it on? Or chosen a program like that? Ridiculous, I think—about five seconds before I hear it. Faint, but completely unmistakable: Chandler Bing yelling away about his third nipple. Then right after it comes the audience’s laughter, like a jaunty soundtrack to whatever hell this is.

Though at this point, I really don’t know if hell is the right word.

I gently push the door all the way open without going over the garlicked and silvered threshold, and all I get is a strangely inviting dimness. The glow of the television, my perfectly tidy living room. In fact, I think my living room actually looks tidier than it did before, somehow. I’m sure there were clothes strewn all over my couch; now they’re neatly folded in a basket I don’t remember having.

And the blanket I always end up screwing up:

It’s covering the back of my armchair.

My books are stacked, my dining table and its single sad seat is tucked properly in the corner. He was tied to that a few hours ago, some vague part of my brain tries to remind me. But I can’t focus on it the way I want to. I’m too busy noticing the other bizarre piece of this absurd puzzle: