WP: 'Why would a human even adopt me?', said the little girl, 'Don't you know I am a vampire?'

All too soon, he pulls his wrist away. I pick my head up, try to follow it, cling to his arm, whining my frustration. My need.

But the legends aren’t true, at least not in this. I don’t have the strength of ten men. I have the strength of one skinny twelve year old girl. He wrenches his arm free, pushes me down with the other hand, the back of my head back down onto his thighs, pins me as I thrash and hiss and struggle, clawing up at him.

“I’m hungry!”

How dare he? How dare he lure me in here, trap me, then try to starve me? Doesn’t he understand I need it? I should leave. I should leave him and find someone who feeds me properly.

It’s not fair.

“Shhh. Shh.” His grip is like stone, but his voice is soft, coaxing. “Shhh. C’mon, Chaz. Don’t be like this. Are we gonna have to do this every time?”

His wrist hangs above me, thick, muscular, dripping with red, with warmth, with the perfume of a thousand flowers. My mouth is alive with the taste of copper and iron, spices, honey, like a million things and like nothing else ever. Drops fall on my face. I squirm, lick my lips, strain to catch them.

“C’mon Chaz. Calm down. I gave you some. You’re fine.”

Slowly the red mist fades from my vision. I squeeze my eyes shut, bear down, force myself to stillness. Slowly the downward pressure of his hand relaxes, and I lie quiet on the threadbare couch, head in his lap, counting seconds.

“You good?” he asks. No, I am not good, I am an unholy thing, an affront to God and nature, but of course he speaks as a child of his own era, with modern words, their meaning slipped over the centuries.

“I am… calm… now. I cry your pardon, Michael.”

“Modern language, Chaz. All the time. Even when we’re alone. Don’t get sloppy.”

“Okay, sorry, dad. Can I get up now?”

His face hangs over me, raises one eyebrow. Oh, yes, right. His blood is still dripping on my face. I reach up for his wrist, wait as he stiffens a moment, then relaxes. I pull it down to me, extend my tongue to wrap around it, lick the blood, savoring the taste until my spittle seals the wound, mends the skin smoothly, invisible, as though my fangs had never touched it.

I roll away from him, half crouch, half kneel on the floor, against his shins. Take a moment to steady myself. Remind myself to breathe in before I speak.

“Sorry. I just… we’re… it’s hard. I know I should stop, I want to stop. Every time, I want to stop. But I can’t make myself do it.”

“it’s okay. I’m not mad. That’s what the word ‘addiction’ means.” His voice is cool, gentle, patient. I wish I could believe he felt it. But that’s all I am to him.

A junkie.

“Yes, I know. That’s what we are. It’s hard to be calm. And it’s harder with a permanent case of… you know… ”

“Teenage hormones. Yeah. There’s more in the fridge if you need it.”

“Bah. Cold. Lifeless. Bland.” But I get up, walk to the kitchen, wet a paper towel to clean my face, and open the ref.. the refrig… the cold box. Blood packs. O Negative. I pour into a wine glass, place it into the micro-wave to heat, and fill another glass with red wine for Michael while I wait.

Even warm, it savors of little to the nose. I grope among the bottles, find the clear one, add a healthy dram of vodka.

“Chastity.”

“Yes?”

“You’re twelve.”

“I have been twelve since the War of Independence.” I hand him the glass in my left hand, checking twice. Neither of us would relish a repeat of last week’s mistake. “I do not think a small indulgence will stunt the non-existent growth of my thoroughly dead corpse.”

“Chaz, that’s not my point. You need to maintain the habits of a child, act like a child, talk like a child, if this is going to work. A modern child. You can’t be pouring booze in your drinks, swearing, or talking like an old book.”

“I may be out of date, but I’ve played the child for several lifetimes, father. I won’t slip up. Drink your wine.” I suit actions to words. A little bite of alcohol actually improves stored blood, though perhaps not enough to keep my hungry eyes from his wrists, his throat, the muscles of his thighs under his trousers.

“Dad, not father. Father sounds far too formal for a teenager.”

“Daddy?”

I hear a second heartbeat rhythm only a moment before Daisy appears, her inquisitive face peering between the rails of the banister. I must not have been paying attention. Michael’s halfway up the stairs in little more than a moment, his face drawn with concern, like she’s made of glass.

“What’s wrong, honey? Were you throwing up again?”

“No. I just couldn’t sleep. You were kinda loud. Hey, is Chassie drinking wine?”

“No, honey, it’s just -”

Human blood mixed with cheap vodka, because your stepsister is a monster.

“Chassie’s not s’posed to drink wine. She’s only twelve.”

“I know, honey. It’s not wine, it’s just in a grownup glass. I’m sorry we were so loud. Let’s get you back in bed.”

“Okay, can I have a glass of water first? In a grownup glass, too?”

“Sure, honey.”

I watch as he scoops her up, and climbs the stairs. Her white nightgown peeking out from under his arm. Her tiny bald head over his shoulder. His face alive with tenderness.

I sit on the couch and drink my blood. I’m two more glasses in, alcohol buzzing in my veins, by the time Daisy is back in bed, with a wine glass full of water on her nightstand. His heartbeat comes back down the stairs. He fixes me with a hard look… my eyes must have gone full red, tipped him off to how much I’ve had.

“Dammit, Chaz.”

“I know, I know. It has to last until next week. You’ve told me a dozen times already. I just… I needed some more. Today was…. bad.”

“If this is going to work, you’re going to need a lot of self control.”

Another hard look. That’s all I ever seem to get from him.

“Yes, dad. But I’m not the one you have to worry about. If we go through with this, if you sign the adoption papers -”

“I already did. I was going to tell you.”

My reflexive sigh of relief goes nowhere. I’ve forgotten to breathe again. But some of that edge of tension has drained out of me… for the next few years at least, I’m his daughter.

His weird, homeschooled, albino, goth teenage daughter. I’ll have a parent, someone to stave off the embarrassing questions. The dangerous questions.

Hey, sweetie. Are you lost? Where are your parents? Is there someone I can call for you?

Someone to buy me blood. To shelter me from the sun. A basement to hide my coffin in.

His voice cuts through my thoughts. “You’re prepared to keep your end of the deal?”

“Yes, but… Michael… she won’t thank you for this.”

His heart speeds up. Angry rhythm.

“You’re not backing out now, you prom-”

“I’ll keep my word. But… if I turn her, she’ll be like me. A child. She’ll be seven years old forever.”

“She’ll be alive!”

“No, she won’t. I’m not alive. She won’t be. No. Look at me! I’m serious! I move, and talk, and I don’t rot, but I’m a corpse! And I’ll never grow up, never change! Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“Of course I don’t. But she’ll be here. I can’t lose her, Chaz. Not after her mother. It might be hard, but at least I can hug her instead of a gravestone! I can take care of her.”

You never hug ME. Not even when I’m fed, when my skin is warm and soft to touch, and my eyes are full red. I’m supposed to be your daughter, too, even if we’re just pretending, just going through the motions.

I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. How can I ask someone young enough to be my grandson to read me stories? To hold my hand when we cross the street? To tuck me in at night?

“Chaz?”

“I said I’d do it, alright? But… can you take care of her? Teach her to sink her fangs into people and drink blood? What happens when fifty years have gone by, and you’re old, or gone, and she’s still six? Do I take care of her forever? Or do I turn you, and we become some kind of sick vampire family, moving from town to town and… ambushing people? Making them disappear at night?”

“No! Or… I don’t know!” His heart is faster now, his eyes wide and white around the edges. “I don’t have any answers! But… you’ve seen the reports. It’s spread to her liver. The lungs will be next. I don’t have any other solutions! I don’t have time!”

He sinks onto the couch, face in his hands. His wineglass, kicked over on the floor, spreads red across the carpet, but neither of us cares.

“I can’t lose her,” he says. His voice doesn’t falter. It’s clear, and steady, and sad.

Yes. That’s it, it’s her you can’t lose. Your daughter. Not the fosterling. I’m just the medicine. You’ll ask me to turn you, eventually. There’s no other solution. And she’ll your little girl forever. And I’ll be… there. Chasity Praisegod, minister’s daughter, born by lamplight, adrift in a world of cars and smart phones and internet memes, two and a half centuries out of date.

A family. Little sister, daddy, big sister.

But you never hold my head in your lap, except when you’re feeding me blood.

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