Page 17 of Evil Hearts

“I could sew those up for you, if you’d like,” I say.

Juliette lifts her head to look at me in confusion, then straightens the rest of the way, fully recovered. “What?”

“My mom taught me how to sew a long time ago. Your skirts, I mean. I can sew them.” I point indicate them and give her another cheesy grin.

Juliette looks down at the hem of her skirts and pulls them up to reveal a pair of bare feet. And … she doesn’t have any toenails. Huh. That’s … gnarly, honestly. But if she’s truly a Nosferatu, then it makes sense, I guess? Not like I have firsthand experience to even know.

Juliette doesn’t say anything in response to my offer. She merely trudges off toward another tunnel. I follow behind like a dutiful canine following its master. When we finally reach the end of the tunnel, I notice the soft amber glow in the distance.

“Home,” Juliette says, and quickens her pace toward it. We approach a small alcove hidden away in one of the corners, andit’s here I see the source of the light. Dozens of candles sit on the ground and on top of crates here, dripping wax all over the place. But that’s not all; there are a few paintings on easels, sitting beside a tiny cot with a burgundy wool blanket and a few other small belongings. Pictures. Books. Tchotchkes. It would almost be cozy if it weren’t for the fact that piss and shit water was only a few meters away.

Above the entrance to the alcove, I notice words painted on the bricks.Le Salon de Juliette, it reads. I point up at it and grin. “Oh, cute. Did you do that?”

Juliette hurries over to her cot and checks underneath the blankets like a squirrel checking to make sure her nuts are still buried. She’s not going to answer me, so I’m just going to have to figure shit out on my own, I guess. I walk around the small space, nearly bumping my head on the ceiling a few times. Almost knock over a couple candles, too.

Juliette sighs and shoots me a scowl. “Prudente,” she admonishes.

I may not understand much French, but I understood her loud and clear. I nod, then sit down in front of one of the stacks of paintings and rifle through it without waiting for an invitation. Juliette doesn’t say anything as I flip through the stack of papers. Watercolor paintings of different French cities seem to be the trend in this stack. There’s a painting of the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Louvre. All touristy spots I’ve never visited. I’ve traveled a fair bit, but never there. And we’re hundreds of miles away from France, so I’m not even sure what she’s doing out here in Mystilla.

But there’s one I don’t recognize. I hold up the painting and tap it.

“Basilique du Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre,” Juliette fires off quickly. I have no idea what she just said, but I nod anyway.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

Juliette sits back on her heels and … is that a small curve of her lips I see? I stare at her face for a long, long while. So long that Juliette swallows thickly and mutters, “T-Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, then put the stack of artwork down. “So, you’re a real painter. An artist.”

She nods from across the room. “Yes.”

I snort and lean back against a crate, trying to get comfortable. Yeah, fat luck there. “I can’t even draw stick figures.”

Juliette shakes her head slowly.

“Yeah, I know. Every artist hears that, right?” I ask. She merely answers with a soft tutting sound. That’s probably a yes, then.

Down here, there aren’t any sounds save for a slow dripping in the distance. Occasionally, the candles hiss, but that’s about it. Complete and total silence. It’s enough to drive a man mad. As a professional lowlife and metalhead, I’m used to noise. Lots of it. Heavy bass that makes my bones vibrate and my skull throb. The screams of a crowd going absolutely ballistic for the music.

I tilt my head as I watch Juliette busy herself with a crochet project she’s pulled out from underneath her blankets. So that’s what she was looking for, I guess.

“What are you making?” I ask.

Juliette flicks her gaze up at mine and shrugs. “Mittens.”

Gloves, huh? My gaze narrows as I stare at the oddly shaped black yarn. “Oh, baby girl … if you’re trying to make a pair of gloves, I think you’re going about it wrong. Gloves have fingers, right?” I point at her project and let out a small laugh. But Juliette sends me a look that says she’s about to stab me in the jugular with her knitting needles.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I just like to joke around. It’s not serious.”

“Mittens. They’re different from gloves. They don’t have fingers, imbecile.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest and snort. “I’m pretty sure they do, but do you, I guess,” I say with a grin.

Juliette isn’t smiling back. She just stares at me with that cold, crimson stare of hers. If looks could kill, as they say. I’m not usually into bald women. Typically, I find long black hair super hot. I love goth girls as much as the next person, but … there’s something there, beneath the death and decay that almost seems … kind of pretty about Juliette.

Whatever, it’s probably the Stockholm Syndrome already setting in. I’m not used to sitting still for more than ten minutes at a time, so this has been a pretty painful experience.

“You know, I always thought the Nosferatu were supposed to be evil,” I say. “You know how, according to the stories, they ransacked countless villages and cities and murdered everything and everyone in a super metal gore fest?”

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