“No, no, just—just in general. Angry at the state of the world. At, like, systemic oppression and the patriarchy and … what a shitbag this country is.”
“Sure.”
“Sure?” I pursed my lips, pretty sure that if your answer was so whatever, the real answer was no. I charged up the steps and slammed into the door, dragging its weight out and open.
Sid caught up to me. “Is this about your mom?”
I actually snarled, like a fucking vampire. Teeth bared.
“Shit,” she snapped, and shoved past me.
As she strode away, the swing of her short uniform skirt very clearly stated, Well I’m angry now, bitch.
I thought about Persephone and her six pomegranate seeds. She went with the god of death half the year and for the other half returned home to her mom. The best of both worlds. Maybe that was what I was angry about.
* * *
That night, the sixth night, I asked Seti, “What if I want to kill someone?”
“Do it with a tool a human could use, so as not to draw attention. Have a drink, but use a knife to the throat.”
I shuddered, wondering if someday I’d be so old a monster I could say such a thing so easily.
“It’s difficult to drink enough blood to kill a full-grown man,” she continued, pulling me down the stairs into a speakeasy. “Unless you do it slowly. We rarely get into the big arteries because they’re more difficult to control. Too much force and you end up gagging, and blood spray on clothing is suspicious.” She touched her finger to my bottom lip. In a sultry voice, she added, “It’s best for us when we have to suck a little bit.”
I snorted. “Okay, so you don’t get caught up in the pleasure of it and accidentally drain somebody dry. What about garlic and crosses and shit?”
“Garlic gets into the skin and blood and can be overwhelming, but it’s not dangerous. Crosses, salt, holy water, those types of things can be imbued with magic that disrupts ours, hurting us, but rarely these days. Almost nobody practices that sort of magic anymore. Just general protection spells and the evil eye and blessings.”
“Are there, like, slayers?”
“Sure, but you’re more likely to be struck by lightning.”
“Would that kill us?”
“I bet so.”
Seti charmed the bouncer and stole a table, and we perched on high stools drinking smoky cocktails out of little crystal coupe glasses.
“And the sun?” I asked.
“Deadly.”
“Why?”
“It breaks the magic, or kills the demon in our blood, I suppose. You won’t burst into flame, but all your blemishes and wounds since you died return with a vengeance, and you age. The sun breaks the spell, and you’re as dead as you should’ve been.”
“Direct sunlight? Or any?”
“Direct, or we’d be toast under a full moon, too.”
“Do you ever watch the dawn?”
“At the movie theater.”
“I should paint it while I can.”
Seti grinned slowly. “So you’ve decided?”
In that moment, I wanted to run.
* * *
When we returned to the gallery apartment, a little boy was there with Esmael. Eleven or twelve, white with rusty-red hair, cherubic is what his cheeks are called, and dressed like an adult in tight jeans, polished loafers, a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a vivid teal tie with tiny yellow flowers.
“This is Henry,” Esmael said, two spots of actual pink on his cheeks, so he was either elated, furious, or very full of blood.
The boy bowed at me like in a costume movie and lifted his huge, light brown eyes. Then he smiled, and the fangs that seemed tiny in Esmael’s mouth completely overwhelmed the delicate lips of that little boy. “Greetings, miss.”
“A little kid vampire!” I couldn’t help being rude.
Seti snorted. Esmael touched my cheek with one hand and put his knuckles to Henry’s lightly curling hair. “It’s a sign, darling: Henry is my oldest living progeny. He came to see me, just in time to speak with you.”
“So much for teenage girls being your biggest successes,” I said, laughing a little. I was stunned, as well as nervous. Here was such a little kid, who could rip my throat out in a snap.
“People raised as girls is exactly what I said,” Seti corrected me, grinning. “Isn’t that right, Hen?”
The little boy sighed like an old man and went to the sideboard to pour a glass of whiskey.
Esmael said, “I was living as a priest in France in the fifteenth century—within the Church was the safest place for monsters in those days—and served