The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

43

Greg, Margarita Drinker (Wink)

Isla didn't reply to my millionth text. I needed to stop. This was bordering on psychopathic. Stalkerish. Lovesick looney. Like Dmitri. I gagged and tossed the phone onto my couch. Naturally, as I did, it rang.

Groaning, I dug the stupid device out from the cushions and hit speaker.

"You were right," Phoebe chimed like this was just a normal night on a normal case. "She's got a record. This time" — she snorted — "but here's the kicker, it's a decade old and partially sealed. Pleaded guilty to vague conjuring and negligence charges for a minor. Which, I don't know about you, but that sounds an awful lot like plea deal to me. The Madame was a criminal mademoiselle, once upon a time."

Phoebe seemed to find something about what she said funny and laughed heartily. Wished I knew exactly where in the room she lurked, spying on me without care. I pictured her perched on my desk, fidgeting, and tapping her foot as she shuffled through papers. Could almost hear the rhythmic click of her invisible heel on the floor through the phone line.

Which was incredibly aggravating. I'd had a persistent headache since my run in with Octavius. Hunger ached fiercely in my veins. Despite returning to death with every sunrise, I still felt like I hadn't slept in days. The afterimage of Isla's glowing form, hovering like a goddess above us, was imprinted on the backs of my eyelids. As Phoebe recounted the frustratingly unsurprising and limited details of Isla's criminal record, I found myself absently doodling her face in my notebook. Floating hair. Dancing carnations. Glowing skull beneath her skin. Dark eyes. Full lips. Adding that mole in just the right spot on her cheek.

I snapped the notebook shut.

"Thanks, Phoebe," I mumbled, sliding deeper into the couch.

"That's it? Just a thanks? Nothing snarky? No new errands that would definitely be better suited for a solid pair of hands you want to make me run? Took me gallons of energy to work the fax machine, by the way."

Nothing you can't figure out for yourself, Octavius had said.

"No."

"She's the real deal," said Phoebe, a twinge of almost admiration in her voice.

"What, you like her now?"

"Gives me the heebie jeebies, actually! But whatever skills she picked up, according to her records, the Madame did so long before the library reported cursed books stolen only a few days ago, in broad daylight."

Ugh. Those fanging books. What were those titles again? I flipped through my notes, careful to avoid staring too long at silly doodles. Few pages back I'd written: The Black Book of the Dead, English Translation by E. O'Connell 1923. Guidebook for theUnexpectedly Demised , 1988 edition. Necronomicon, Bound in Human Flesh, 2nd edition translation. Dark arts. Necromancy. Conjuring. Dark magic. All taken. All in daylight.

Wait, broad daylight? I hadn't written that down.

"You called the library?"

Phoebe tsked. "You kept forgetting to pay them a visit."

"You sure it was broad daylight?"

"No wards tripped," she whistled. "Wasn't a creature. Some plain old person to just waltzed in and grabbed it off a shelf. You spooky magic types really don't give any thought to us normal folks, huh?"

Interesting.

Stolen books. Stolen bones. Isla's glowing bones. She passed for a plain old person easily enough, hadn't she? Well, plain, no. Not ever plain, old boy, don't lie to yourself like that, or else you're more the fool than Dmitri. Isla was infatuating. Intriguing. Infuriating. Irresistible.