The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires(22)

“Mom!” Carter said.

Patricia saw Blue gag and clap his napkin over the lower half of his face. Korey leaned back in her chair, away from her grandmother, and Carter reached for his mother, napkin outstretched.

“I’m so sorry,” Patricia said to James Harris as she got up.

“I know who you are,” Miss Mary shouted at James Harris. “In your ice cream suit.”

Patricia hated Miss Mary at that moment. Someone interesting had come into their home to talk about books, and Miss Mary wouldn’t even let her have that.

She hustled Miss Mary out of the dining room, pulling her beneath the armpits, not caring if she was a little rough. Behind her, she was aware of James Harris rising as Carter and Korey both started talking at once, and she hoped he was still there when she got back. She hauled Miss Mary to the garage room and got her seated in her chair with the plastic bowl of water and her toothbrush and came back to the dining room. The only person left was Carter, sucking on his ice cream, hunched over his bowl.

“Is he still here?” Patricia asked.

“He left,” Carter said, through a mouthful of vanilla. “Mom seemed weird tonight, don’t you think?”

Carter’s spoon clicked against the bottom of the bowl and he stood up, leaving his bowl on the place mat for her to clean up, not waiting to hear what she had to say. In that moment, Patricia hated her family with a passion. And she wanted to see James Harris again, badly.





CHAPTER 8


That was how she found herself a little after noon the next day, standing on the porch of Ann Savage’s yellow-and-white cottage.

She knocked on the screen door and waited. In front of the new mansion across the street, a cement truck dumped gray sludge into a wooden frame for its driveway. James Harris’s white van sat silently in the front yard, the sun spiking off its tinted windshield and making Patricia squint.

With a loud crack, the front door broke away from the sticky, sun-warmed paint and James Harris stood there, sweating, wearing oversize sunglasses.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Patricia said. “I wanted to apologize for my mother-in-law’s behavior last night.”

“Come in quickly,” he said, stepping back into the shadows.

She imagined eyes watching her from every window up and down the street. She couldn’t go into his house again. Where was Francine? She felt exposed and embarrassed. She hadn’t thought this through.

“Let’s talk out here,” she said into the dark doorway. All she could see was his big pale hand resting on the edge of the door. “The sun feels so nice.”

“Please,” he said, his voice strained. “I have a condition.”

Patricia knew genuine distress when she heard it, but she still couldn’t make herself step inside.

“Stay or go,” he said, anger edging his voice. “I can’t be in the sun.”

Looking up and down the street, Patricia quickly slipped through the door.

He brushed her aside to slam the main door, forcing her deeper into the middle of the room. To her surprise, it was empty. The furniture had been pushed up against the walls along with the old suitcases and bags and cardboard boxes of junk. Behind her, James Harris locked his front door and leaned against it.

“This looks so much better than yesterday,” she said, making conversation. “Francine did a wonderful job.”

“Who?” he asked.

“I saw her on my way out the other day,” she said. “Your cleaner.”

James Harris stared at her through his large sunglasses, completely blank, and Patricia was about to tell him she needed to leave when his knees buckled and he slid down to the floor.

“Help me,” he said.

His heels pushed uselessly against the floorboards, his hands had no strength. Her nursing instincts kicked in and she stepped close, planted her feet wide, got her hands under his armpits, and lifted. He felt heavy and solid and very cool, and as his massive body rose up in front of her, she felt overwhelmed by his physical presence. Her damp palms tingled all the way up to her forearms.

He slumped forward, dropping his full weight onto her shoulders, and the intense physical contact made Patricia light-headed. She helped him to a pressed-back rocking chair by the wall, and he dropped heavily into it. Her body, freed of his weight, felt suddenly lighter than air. Her feet barely touched the floor.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“I got bitten by a wolf,” he said.

“Here?” she asked.

She saw his thigh muscles clench and relax as he began to unconsciously rock himself back and forth.

“When I was younger,” he said, then flashed his white teeth in a pained smile. “Maybe it was a wild dog and I’ve romanticized it into a wolf.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Did it hurt?”

“They thought I would die,” he said. “I had a fever for several days and when I recovered I had some brain damage—just mild lesions, but they compromised the motor control in my eyes.”

She felt relieved that this was starting to make sense.

“That must be difficult,” she said.

“My irises don’t dilate very well,” he said. “So daylight is extremely painful. It’s thrown my whole body clock out of whack.”