The undead are, generally, more attractive after being turned. Even vampires who weren ’t conventionally attractive in life have a certain sensual sparkle. As long as they keep up with basic hygiene, they will stay that way. In order to hunt and feed, they have to be able to attract prey, yes? Chameleons blend in with their surroundings. Anglerfish have those weird dangly -bait things hanging off their faces. Vampires have bright eyes, glistening white teeth, unnaturally smooth skin, and a certain animal magnetism. If they aren’t pretty, they starve. It’s sort of like life in Los Angeles.
As for the other legends: Vamps do not turn into swirls of fog or bats. They can see themselves in mirrors but not in water, for some reason. They haven’t slept in coffins regularly for almost a hundred years now. Leaving knots untied and scattering seeds to distract them will only work on vampires with OCD. Garlic can’t really hurt them, but they tend to stay away from it because, hello, supersensitive noses. Plus, it acts as a coagulant, making drinking from someone who’s just had Italian food like swallowing chewy Jell-O.
Like most aspects of vampirism, their highly developed sense of smell is both a blessing and a curse. Think about your physiological responses to anger, fear, or even arousal: sweaty palms, increased body temperature, release of certain pheromones.
Well, vamps can smell all of that. So, if you’re a jumpy slayer wannabe with plans to stake your first bloodsucker, they can peg you at about fifty paces. The drawback is that layer upon layer of emotions and people can be overwhelming and, if dealing with stinky fear-based feelings, pretty unpleasant.
Vampires are allergic to silver. Touching it feels like a combination of burning, itching, and being forced to lick dry ice. If you want to repel attacking vampires, just tell them you’ve had recent dental work.
They are not invulnerable. A stake through the heart, decapitation, and setting them on fire will kill them, but that would kill most anybody.
You don’t become a vampire just by being bitten. Otherwise, the world would be overrun with bloodsuckers. To make a child, a vampire will feed on a victim until he or she reaches the point of death. This is quite an effort, considering that vampires don’t usually drink much more than a pint at a time. The vampire must be careful, as drinking too much can leave the initiate unconscious and unable to drink the blood that will change him or her. I know, it sounds gross. But when faced with death by sudden gunshot wound, it’s a tempting offer. The process takes a lot out of the vampire sire and is said to be the closest the undead can come to childbirth. It’s why a vampire will only turn a handful of “children” in his or her lifetime.
After taking the sire’s blood, the new vampire dies. The heart stops beating, the body shuts down. For three days, he or she is actually dead. In some very unpleasant cases, newbies have been embalmed and buried by mistake. I once asked an older vampire what happens to the embalmed vamps, but he just glowered at me and muttered some undead curse word.
So, in a way, it’s a good thing that no one found my body. Right?
After my death, I woke up in a stranger’s bedroom.
There were soft, deep blues in the carpet over the polished pine floors, in the thick drapes drawn across the windows. The room was gently lit by an old river-stone fireplace, strange in August. Wood carvings, brass knickknacks, polished bits of glass—
little touches that spoke of years of travel—were scattered around the room with a careless sort of charm.
Despite the sluggish pace my brain was keeping, this was alarming. I probably should have mentioned that at this point, I had not had sex in about three years. That’s right, a twenty-seven-year-old almost-virgin librarian.
Take time to absorb the cliché.
It’s not that I didn’t have opportunities for sex. I had plenty of offers from bad dates, anonymous callers with breathing problems, various construction workers. But beyond a rather regrettable “let’s just get it over with” encounter with fellow virgin and close friend Dave Chandler my sophomore year of college and an even more regrettable “my first time was awful, maybe it would be better with someone with more experience” experiment with a teaching assistant my senior year, my sexual repertoire was somewhat limited.
My problem with sex was, along with most of my problems, rooted in my brain. My head was always speeding ahead of my libido. I could never relax enough to let nature take its course. And there was just plain bad sex. My partner mistaking me yelling when I caught my hair on his watchband for cries of passion. Having to go to the emergency room for a broken nose when Justin Tyler head-butted me. The guy who got a mid-thrust leg cramp and whined to the point that I walked out of his apartment half -
dressed.
I always hoped for this spark of chemistry and compatibility, a flash of clarity to let me know that this was the guy, this was the time, so I should let go and enjoy myself. But it rarely came. And by no small coincidence, neither did I.
Between these extremely unsatisfying experiences and my apparent inability to develop that “spark” with any man on the planet, I just decided sex wasn’t worth the effort. If I wanted to spend an evening half-dressed, humiliated, and unfulfilled, I’d try amateur night down at the Booby Hatch. So I channeled my energy into my work at the library and obsessively collecting obscure BBC movies on DVD. The Woman in White with Justine Waddell is a life-changer.
So, after years of relative inactivity, the idea that I had participated and possibly been videotaped in some drunken one-night stand with an overdecorating stranger was upsetting. The most print-friendly version of my first undead words was: “What did I do?”
I sat up and found that I was wearing clothes, which was good. But I was wearing striped cotton pajamas that were not my own, which was bad.
My brain, my throat, my mouth, everything above my shoulders felt swollen and detached. Swallowing was an effort. I struggled to get my feet over the edge of the bed. I took some solace in the fact that I had been debauched in a well -appointed bed. I rolled off the marshmallow of a mattress and flopped facedown on the floor. (Ow.)
“Misery, thy name is Mudslide,” I groaned.
I braced myself against another tasteful piece, a cherry dresser with a high, narrow mirror. My considerable height allowed my head to rest just below the frame, against the soothing cool of the glass. As my eyes slowly came to focus, I thought it must have been an old mirror or some sort of carnival trick, because I was…stunning. My skin was clear, lineless, even iridescent in the low light. I was practically a Noxzema girl. My teeth were straighter, somehow, and a bright, unnatural white. My eyes, usually a muddy hazel, were pure amber. My hair had gone from plain straight-as-a-board brown to long waves of glistening chestnut with undertones of honey and auburn. And if I wasn’t mistaken, my butt looked smaller…and higher.
“She finally did it!” I screeched, clutching my cotton-covered rear. “Mama tranquilized me and booked me on Extreme Makeover!”
I opened my shirt to see if there was any change to my breasts. I ’d always secretly hoped for a slightly fuller C cup. “No luck.”
“What’s Extreme Makeover?”
I made a sound not quite human and ended up clinging to the ceiling, my fingernails dug into the plaster like a frightened cartoon cat. And I was looking at an inverted version of Gabriel the Tequila Sunrise drinker.
“You!” I hissed.
“Yes?” Gabriel asked, making himself comfortable in a handsomely upholstered wing-back chair.
“Date rapist!” I yelled, wondering how to tumble off the ceiling and find the mace in my purse in less than three strides.
Clearly, this was not the response he was expecting. “I beg your pardon?”
“What the hell did you give me?”
Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “Give you?”
“Must have been some pretty powerful drugs to make me forget an entire night and then cling to the fricking ceiling! ” I shouted. Some little voice in the back of my brain wondered exactly how my hands and knees were sticking to the ceiling, but since I was far more interested in whatever illegal substances might be in my system, I demanded, “Now, what did you give me?”
“I think it would be best if you came down from there before I explained that.”
“I think I’ll stay right where I am, thank you,” I said. “And you, you stay where you are, or I’ll…I don’t know what I’ll do, but it will really hurt. You, I mean.”
He grinned. It was not a friendly smile, more of a “poor pitiful creature whom I’m about to devour, you amuse me” sort of smile. A very white, very pointy smile, set in an unnaturally pale face. This was when it dawned on me that I was dealing with a member of our less-than-living population.
“You’re a vampire!” I exclaimed. Not the most original or astute of observations, I’ll admit, but I was hanging upside down.
I can’t emphasize that enough.
Gabriel offered that disturbing grin again. “Yes, and so are you.”
I’m not sure how long I hung there, staring at him. Eventually, I found my “talking to preschoolers” voice and drawled, “No, I’m a librarian. Or at least, I used to be, before I got fired today, or yesterday, whatever day it is. You stay right there! ” I cried, scrambling back across the ceiling as he leaned forward. I had to admit, despite the weird wooshy feeling in my head, that was pretty cool.
“I wouldn’t dream of moving,” he said, sitting back again. “Perhaps you’d like to come down?”
“No, I—whaaa!” Whatever tentative grip I had on the plaster failed, and I landed safely on my feet. I straightened my pajama top. “I think I will get down, thank you.”
“So glad you could join me.” My undead host motioned for me to sit across from him. I plopped down in the seat, pulling anxiously at the pajama top to make sure everything was covered. “You’re a very unusual young woman.”
“You’re not the first person to say that.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” He nodded.
