The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

37

Greg, Looks Like He's Seen a Ghost. Or Three.

"He knows," The voices inside Isla purred.

All eyes, and jaws, snapped at Julian. A breath of wind, seemingly carrying the glowing embers of Isla's illuminated bones, sighed past my ears and struck him in the chest. The valet's stupid tie slapped him in the mouth.

He spat it away. "I, ugh, I don't know what they're—My Liege, don't look at me like—this is ridiculous! They're dead, what do they know?"

"We know you slipped inside Sloane's room when you thought no one was peeping, silly boy," the ghost trio answered. "We saw you sneak Lily's undergarments beneath the pillow— cad."

That last huffy bit was all Agatha, by my guess.

They tugged at our hands, Dmitri and mine, clutching Isla's, nearly lifting us off our chairs. Despite the pain flaring through my dislocated wrist, I held tight to her, our fingers woven together. She trusted me not to break her circle. Dmitri seemed too distracted to move at all; gasping dryly over his valet's betrayal. But I was mesmerized by her. The loll of her head. Her hair floating around her chin. The endless black pits of her eyes.

The way they moved Isla made me woozy. As her head turned, she left glimmering traces of herself behind, like an afterimage, an aura, before it drifted back into place. Slow and hazy. Made me squint as her glow flared. It was like staring too long at the sun rising over the mountains, burning off fog and dew as day broke.

The memory clogged my throat. Been a few centuries since I thought of those sunrises.

I leaned closer to her. "Isla? Can you hear me?"

She turned to me. "This ain't her show right now, sugar bean."

My neck ached. Like I'd been lassoed by something heavy. The weight of it becoming strangling tight.

"Already fucking knew he did that," snorted Sloane. (Did she? I tried to contain my surprise). "Only thing more cloying than the stench of that girl's snatch was your shitty aftershave all over them."

Isla lurched her head back.

"Aw, yeah, tell it sister," laughed Rusti. "I'd take three days in a tent at Woodstock rank over whatever juice he's sporting."

It was true. The snake did seem to favor overly sweet, yet peppery and musk like, cologne. Body spray, Isla corrected as we clambered out of his van earlier. You don't call the cheap shit cologne.

Julian reddened.

"I-it was a misunderstanding. I thought they were—"

"Don't you fucking dare say mine," said Sloane.

"Thought I made it translucent," Dmitri added, "that all discarded undergarments were to be given directly to me, swine!"

Well, that was disgusting.

The ghosts inside Isla rolled their eyes. Despite literally floating a foot or two off the ground, she looked heavier. Her arms and legs and neck hung ragdoll limp. She leaned gradually to one side as the lights flickered and a stench of smoke and sulfur and the sweetness of mulled wine permeated the air. For a moment, she fell. Only a few inches before jerking herself upright and squeezing my hand hard. Isla shook her head in the same way an untamed werewolf shakes rainwater off its fur.

"Be gentle with her," I snarled.

Something was wrong. The ladies were misusing their borrowed host. Or this was normal? What did I know about communing with ghosts? At the moment, more than I'd ever hoped to, and yet it certainly wasn't enough. It wasn't right either. Let the dead lucky enough to sleep rest in their caskets or great beyond or wherever they were.