Drink, Slay, Love

Chapter Two

Pearl's eyes snapped open.

Huh, she thought. I'm awake. That's a lovely surprise.

She was lying on Uncle Felix's couch. She felt the cracked leather against her cheek, and she smelled the mix of old leather and almost-as-old blood. Family legend said that Uncle Felix had stolen this couch from a high-profile socialite-back in the days when a dead body didn't summon a fleet of forensic scientists-and carried it on his back down thirty-six flights of stairs from the penthouse. Usually, he spent every night stretched out on it with the latest New York Times, open to the obituaries, spread across his stomach. It wasn't a couch that Pearl had ever woken up on. Why was she here?

Mother leaned over Pearl, and Pearl flinched at her expression. "Idiot," Mother said. She poked a manicured nail at Pearl's shoulder. "I should stake you myself."

Pearl pushed herself to a sitting position and hissed as pain shot through her ribs and radiated out her arms. Fighting to steady her breathing, she fixed her eyes on the print above the marble fireplace. It was Nighthawks, also "borrowed" by Uncle Felix. (He considered it demeaning to pay humans for their goods.) He'd lifted it from the dorm room of an overly emo freshman who (he'd said) had seen it as a reflection of the loneliness of human existence. Uncle Felix considered it an ironic addition to their living room since vampires, unlike humans, were never truly alone. There was always the Family.

Several members of the Family watched as Pearl inhaled and exhaled. None of them bothered to breathe anymore. At Pearl's age, her body behaved (mostly) like a human's, though she could control her breath if she tried, but the vast majority of the Family had abandoned the habit in their first century. The silence made the stares worse. She needed to bury the pain fast.

The Family didn't like weakness.

Only Uncle Pascha ignored her. He was contemplating his chessboard. She doubted that he'd move his piece today. It had been his turn for only six months. Once, he had gone three years between moves. He preferred a leisurely game.

"What happened?" Pearl asked.

Cousin Jocelyn snorted. "Oh, not the old amnesia-for-sympathy ploy. You nearly died. How horrible. How traumatic. Blah-blah-blah." Curled up in the window seat (light-block black shades drawn, even though it was night), Jocelyn returned to typing on her laptop. The monitor's soft glow lit the tattoos on her knuckles.

"Terribly sorry to bore you," Pearl said, "but the question stands."

No one answered her.

Mother paced back and forth over the Oriental rug. Cousin Jeremiah crouched by the hearth, rocking slightly and grinning at her. Near him, occupying their usual positions on twin wingback chairs, Aunt Rose and Aunt Lianne continued their embroidery work. Uncle Pascha contemplated his chessboard near the china cabinet, while Uncle Felix perched pseudocasually on the armrest of the couch. Pearl guessed she had only a few minutes before he demanded that she remove herself from his couch. She intended to stand before that happened, just as soon as the sharp pain in her ribs quit feeling as if hot pokers were being rammed into her torso. Until then, she had to concentrate on appearing as if she were sitting by choice, not necessity. She put her feet up on the coffee table.

"Down," Uncle Felix said.

She ignored him.

"Feet off," Mother said. "A brush with extinction does not excuse unladylike behavior. You weren't raised in a barn." She paused. "No offense meant, Cousin Jeremiah."

As if on cue, Cousin Jeremiah issued a high-pitched wail.

Pearl lowered her feet.

"You could have been destroyed," Mother said. "Permanent death."