Vampires, Hearts and Other Dead Things: Chapters 3–5

I want him to give me one of his solemn nods, accepting my plan without question.

Teams of professionals haven’t been able to locate them, so why would I fare any better?

After all, he once helped me set a trap for Bigfoot in the woods behind my house based on my flimsy evidence of gouged tree trunks and snapped branches—some of which I broke myself to create more proof.

“Vampires don't exist.” He says it slowly, cautiously, like I’m no longer a wounded bird but a feral animal he’s trying to tame.

Plenty of people were incredulous when Gerald first appeared—even when he stabbed himself and healed on live television, people called it an elaborate illusion.

I can’t imagine a world where Henry’s mom’s not already in the kitchen, wearing her white and blue paisley apron that somehow always stays bright and crisp even though I’m sure she’s had it for as long as we’ve lived side by side.

The thought makes me grasp harder at the wary hope inside of me.

I thought he might help me, expected it, even, because sometimes when we tentatively smiled at each other across the hall I got the sense we could be friends again if one of us took the first step, but I didn’t expect him to be waiting for me.

We won’t get emotional. She’ll give me the generic motherly concern, and I’ll be on my way.

“You think I’m delusional,” I say to the dark side of the road slipping by us.

My heartbeat quickens as I struggle to look nonchalant.

Bourbon Street is party central for the French Quarter and already high on my list of places a vampire would be able to enjoy a discreet sip from an unsuspecting tourist.

He flushes. My cheeks heat as I do the same.

I had been trying to place the familiarity and couldn’t, but there’s a quaintness to the buildings and the streets that makes you ignore the cracks in the sidewalk, the suffocating air, and the garbage cans lined up for trash day.

Beyond all that, the buildings rise two or three stories high, each one butted against the next, each with its own personality, from a bright and cheery yellow with a white balcony railing to a brick with an ornate curving black wrought-iron balcony draped in rich green plants.

The place is quirky to the extreme, with an old-fashioned grass-green velvet couch as the center point in the room with a wooden coffee table scuffed up just enough to be charming.

We walk down the hall to a master bedroom, which has a huge king-size bed made of black lacquered wood and covered in a deep burgundy comforter.

His lips are even, no condescending smile or judgmental frown. His brown eyes are wide and earnest.

She thought she was drugged, but there were a ton of articles and news stories speculating about whether vampires were surfacing again and how many might be hiding in the French Quarter. Think about it. Every night tons of people get blackout drunk and can’t remember huge blocks of time. It’d be a smorgasbord.

Startling royal-blue paint covers the doors, which open to the sidewalk, letting smooth jazz and raucous laughter spill out.

The convent is large and unassuming, beige with dull gray shutters, about how you’d expect a convent to look, and yet it possesses a simple beauty that makes you want to whisper when you stand beside it.

Historians tried to come up with explanations for this, like scurvy, which would make the women’s gums bleed, and they claimed the missing men could have hopped a boat up to Baton Rouge or anywhere else, but that’s just a lot of what-ifs to cover up the uncomfortable truth.

Henry stares at me like I’m an overly eccentric history teacher.

“Do you really think they’re still there after all this time? Wouldn’t all those vampire researchers that popped up after the Gerald debacle have checked this place?”

He would have had to move during the vampire heyday, but now? What better place to hide than a place that’s already been checked a thousand times over?

Low, immaculately trimmed hedges start in the center of the courtyard and jut out, lining the many brick paths converging in the center.

“Nothing I read said the second floor wasn’t open to the public,” I whisper, but he’s gone, perusing the stuff on display as if we’re actually here to learn about the nuns.

He stands in front of the pulpit, mouth open slightly as he takes in the rich purple walls and garish amount of gold.

I resent every bit of money someone poured into this. Why not spend it on cancer research?

I pause on the second floor long enough to notice a lovely mustard velvet settee, something I could totally imagine Lestat sitting on, sipping from a glass of red wine mixed with the blood of his latest victim.

Nobody knows if vampires are inherently bad or if they’re like people—bad and good mixed together so thoroughly it’s hard to tell who is which until someone’s ripping out your heart.

“You’re one of those supernatural yahoos always trying to break in upstairs and make some grand discovery.”

He smiles and steps closer to me as the wall of ice between us dissipates, leaving us standing in chilly water, but that’s easily ignored.

The fried catfish is just as amazing—crisp, without a trace of grease on the light breading, the perfect complement to the dripping fries.

Garlic’s been used forever to ward off supernatural evils.

I wore a gray sweatshirt and jeans. For some reason I thought it would make me less conspicuous, but given what the other women I’ve passed on the street were wearing, less is more, and I would have been better off in my white miniskirt and flimsiest top.

The streets around the convent aren’t empty like I’d hoped, but of course I’m not the only one intrigued enough to come here. This place is a must-see for supernatural tours, and even though tours end at ten, I suspect the group of twentysomething women holding drinks and taking selfies are leftover from one.

Perhaps the most terrifying story is of two paranormal researchers who camped outside through the night after failing to breach the upstairs attic—just like me.

In dark skinny jeans and a powder-blue tank top, he looks more like an errant punk elf prince than a vampire.

“Yes,” I hiss, but my tiny thread of hope frays under his scrutiny, and I struggle to hang onto it.