Page 9 of Road Trip with a Vampire
I huffed an incredulous laugh. “Yes.”
“Last night you said I could come by whenever I wanted.”
Was this guy for real? “That’s before I knew what youwere.”
He paused, considering. “So, it’s true. Youcansee my—”
“Yes,” I interrupted. Pitching my voice low, I added, “Your glamour doesn’t work on me. Now, can you please tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”
His eyes darted around the empty room as if to make certain we were truly alone.
“My name is Peter Elliott,” he said. “If you’re Grizelda Watson, you’re the person I’ve been looking for.” He took out a much-handled piece of paper from a duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder. “I should have realized who you were when you introduced yourself as Zelda last night. But I was…” He trailed off,suddenly finding his shoes the most interesting things in the room. “Distracted.”
I didn’t ask what had distracted him. I didn’t want to know. “Why have you been looking for me?” I demanded. “Who sent you?”
He glanced at the paper he held and then at me, his brows furrowed. “Are you friends with somebody called Reginald?”
My stomach plummeted to somewhere in the vicinity of my shoes.
“He’s aformerfriend,” I clarified. Thoughformer friendwasn’t quite right, either. Reginald and I hadn’t so much stopped being friends as we’d lost touch when I’d skipped town without either telling him or giving him my new contact info. But you know. Semantics.
The letter I’d sent him a few months earlier, to say hello and to let him know I’d thought The Collective, our old common nemesis, had paid me a visit, had been my first communication with him since leaving. It had been ten years overdue. In truth, he was one of the only parts of my old life that I missed.
Fortunately, I’d been wrong about The Collective finding me. And now that I stood face-to-face with a vampire Reginald had apparently sent my way, I remembered that good judgment had never been one of my old friend’s strong suits.
Perhaps reaching out to him had been a mistake.
“But you do know him,” Peter Elliott pressed, cutting into my reminiscing.
“Yes.” No point lying about it.
That answer seemed to satisfy him. He handed me the paper he’d been holding. “This should explain everything. I’d tell you myself, but given that there are other people around”—hegestured meaningfully to the Walnut Room, where over a dozen students were stretching and sweating with Lindsay—“letting you read this might be wiser.”
“Probably,” I agreed. Bracing myself for anything—always the best strategy when Reginald was involved—I began to read:
Dear Grizelda,
How’s sunny California?
The reason I’m writing is to give you a heads-up. I’ve sent someone your way. His name is Peter and he has amnesia. Like,actualamnesia, not the kind you and I pretended to have that one time in Boston to get access to free hospital supplies. He remembers his name and how to speak and all that but can’t remember anything that happened to him before a couple of weeks ago.
Suffice it to say, Peter’s pretty freaked out. He can’t go to a doctor for obvious reasons (specifically: he’s a vampire) (please don’t be mad). Amelia (that’s my girlfriend; you’d love her) and I don’t have space for him to stay with us but he seems nice enough. He said he had a very strong urge to see California, and I did the first thing that popped into my head—which was give him your name and your studio’s address and tell him I had a friend in California who might be able to help.
What can I say? I panicked. (Also you’re the only person I know in California.) I’m guessing you went to all the trouble of making a new life for yourself in asunnyplace in partto get away from people like me and Peter, so if you don’t want to answer the doorwhen he comes knocking, I get it. But given that I spent thebetter part of a century covering for you after the entireIncidentsituation I feel somewhat entitled to call in a small favor.
If you could find it in your heart to at least point him in the direction of the nearest blood bank when he arrives, that would be amazing.
Yours,
R.
PS: I checked out your yoga studio online. Looks great! So much natural light! If I believed in any of that stuff and, you know, didn’t fucking hate the sun, I’d have half a mind to head out to California and sign up for some classes myself.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to count to ten before opening them again.
Reginald had been one of my closest friends for over a century. He’d saved my ass more times than I could count. And when he’d replied to my last letter to let me know he’d had a recent run-in with The Collective himself but had escaped unharmed, I had been so relieved I nearly cried.
But if I ever saw him again, I’d stake him where he stood.
