Page 6 of Accidental Vampire

“They would probably stop doing that if you promised to keep your mouth shut.”

“Anyway,” I had to change the subject. I knew I’d be repeating this exact same conversation with Monique later. Did no one appreciate integrity anymore? I leaned down to heft one of the tote bags on the counter. “I didn’t have time to change after running home to pick these up.” I started pulling out skein after skein of hand-dyed yarn.

Christina gasped so loud, the guy perusing the candles knocked over a taper and scrambled to catch up with it before it rolled out the door. Good yarn was always distracting. She petted each jewel-colored skein with little “mmmm’s” of yarn lust. I had hit the mother-lode of estate sales with bins upon bins of undyed sport-weight cashmere, BFL roving, tussah silk. It was like going to fiber heaven. Whoever was managing the sale had no idea the value of it all. I got my spinning wheel out of storage and spent the next three weeks spinning and dying yarn. Hand-dyed cashmere could go for $30 easily on Etsy, and hand-spun art yarn could get you closer to $50. I patted my little goldmine as Christina got out the SKU labels and the price tag gun.

This wasn’t a yarn store exactly, but Christina’s personal love for knitting had her dedicate a whole corner of her shop to some of the best yarn I’ve ever seen in my life. It was all hand-spun or created by indie dyers. Back in my grad school days, I would burn off my anxiety on my spinning wheel. By the end of my first term, I had more yarn than I could ever possibly knit with. I stumbled in here one day, squealed over the yarn selection. She practically fainted over my hand spun shawl. She outright bought everything I had made that semester.

As per her custom, Christina was carefully snatching the best skeins for herself. I tried to gift them to her, but she insisted on paying. She would always say “friends don’t ever take the friends and family discount.” Good thing too. I needed this deal to make my loan payment.

“So,” she said, rapping a fresh stack of paper that just came out of the printer, “I’ve moved to a consignment model. It’s more paperwork, yes, but you’ll make more money at the end of the day and my cash flow will ease up.”

She flopped the papers, the contract I was guessing, on the table and it wafted away one of my label tags. I turned to pick it up. I needed a second to cover up my disappointment. Shit. I never wanted to do consignment. I wanted wholesale. Ineededwholesale. I was counting on walking out of here with $500 in cash. Like usual.

“Oh, that’s a change.” I hoped I didn’t sound disappointed. The candle guy bumped my elbow and handed me a tag I must have missed, with a sheepish smile before he turned to the handmade journals and stationary section.

“I’m doing a 60/40 split, but for you,” she made a few notations on the contract with a red pen, “I’ll do 70/30 and no shelf fee.”

I smiled and faked excitement as we signed contracts and finished tagging the yarn. It was a good deal, by industry standards at least, but with a consignment arrangement, I’d only get paid when an item sold. I’d see that money trickle in over the next year. I might have to find another gig. Making that phone call home was looking like it might be my only option sooner than later.

She got a call and hurriedly told me to go fix the display however I wanted with a sparkling “I trust you” over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” I mumbled as I edged around the guy in the narrow shop. He was now thoughtfully shifting through the bin of note cards. I assessed the fiber corner with hands on hips.

The antique armoire was sparsely stocked with a few skeins of yarn, a couple of knit scarves, some amigurumi unicorns, and oooooo a small bump of Qiviut. I nuzzled that for a bit before setting it aside. I didn’t even bother looking at the price tag. Even fully employed, that would be out of my price range. The bottom drawer was pulled out about 8 inches and fixed in place with a few wicker baskets in it to hold more yarn. Selfishly and with zero regret, I moved all the other yarn to the bottom drawer and stuffed the eye-level prime locations with my own stock.

“Excuse me,” I said as I scooted around the guy again, loaded up with the remaining yarn. A skein of fire red cashmere tumbled to the floor. He swooped down and picked it up, adding it gingerly to the top of the pile.

“Thanks. I should have made two trips,” I said with a sheepish grin.

“No worries. You’re Rachel-Ray-ing it.”

I smiled and nodded, not really in the mood for stranger danger chit-chat. One-handed, I reached up to unhook the shawl that had been artfully arranged across the top of the armoire. A lacy corner was ensnared on a spindly reed of one of the three reed diffusers stationed on top. I struggled to stand on tippy toes with my armload of yarn to free it.

“Oh, here, let me.” The guy approached, arm stretched up for the shawl. He bumped me out of the way.

“Fuck!” escaped his lips when he smashed his shin on the corner of the protruding draw. His fingers got tangled in the shawl, ripping it down as he went to protect his shin, pulling down the reed diffuser.

Right on top of me.

The glass bottle grazed my cheek, bounced off my shoulder, and landed right in the cozy embrace of all my luxury yarns. Hundreds of dollars worth of yarn, a whole month’s rent worth of yarn. I could feel the oil pouring down my cleavage, soaking me. My eyes started to tear as the cashmere soaked in all the patchouli. Of course, it had to be patchouli.

The next few minutes were a blur of chaos and heartbreak. I clutched the now soaked skeins, not wanting put them down and ruin other product. The guy babbled apologies. He pulled every last dollar out of his wallet and pushed it at me. Christina batted him away when he attempted to blot my cheek with his shirt tail. Dumbass.

She suggested washing up in the back, but why bother at this point? The scented oil had already soaked into my clothes. I had to get out of there before I lost it and broke down. She looped my leather bag over my shoulder, thankfully that escaped damage. She rambled about how shitty this was and she’d reprice everything to make up for the damaged skeins. I mumbled something about washing the skeins and maybe “scented yarn” could be a new trend.

I made my escape, and pounded in my flats for the subway, with a giant bag of stinky yarn and $123 of that asshole’s money crumpled in my fist. I was determined not to be one of those New Yorkers who was distraught on public transportation. It was the over powering scent. That’s it. That’s why my eyes were watering.

SIX

LACHLAN

Summer was the fucking worst, wasn’t it? The nights were short, everything smelled. The only upside was people walked around mostly naked, necks and midriffs tantalizingly bare.

I paced around my flat. I came up before it was fully dark. The interior steel shutters and blackout curtains wer e on a timer, but I had bypassed that to let in the last glowing orange of the sunset. The magic hour or whatever. If only sunlight killed a vampire.

I pressed my forehead up against a window and stared longingly at the pavement 20 some odd stories below. Falling wouldn’t kill me. I’d just be splayed out with broken bones and internal organ damage that would slowly knit back together as someone came to collect me. Someone would always collect me. Veronica’s precious pet was never truly alone.

“Sleep well?” Aurora chirped from behind me. I sighed. I heard her come in, ignored her. She fussed about pulling some of the curtains shut. Aurora did not share my appreciation for the golden hour. She was wasting her time. It would be full dark in about three minutes.

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