©2026, Vampires Love Garlic – Ashley Chapman

6

McKenzie
We may be creatures of sexual fantasy…

But this kiss proves exactly what Narcissa and I have both been thinking.

The touch of her lips to mine is sweet, but there is no fantastical electric snap, no choir of angels, no warm buzz that consumes us both. It’s simply an anatomical act, a touching of mouths, clinical, swift, and…cold. Apparently she’s cold, too.

“I didn’t think so,” she sighs, sitting back down and looking at her latte.

She’s not disappointed.

Neither of us is.

We both knew what a kiss would be like. Although, to our quiet pleasure, it wasn’t quite as disgusting as kissing a sibling would have been.

“I’m sorry, Cissa,” I say, looking over to the counter where Jen stands, her mouth wide open, a trickle of drool threatening to slip from the corner of her lips.

“I’m not.”

I look at her, and she smiles sadly.

“I have a heart,” she says, distracting from the kiss and gesturing to her latte. “It’s pretty. I like all the layers to it. They look like waves.”

I reach out and take one of her cold hands in mine.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, my voice lower, softer.

I can see tears gathering in her eyes. I raise my free hand and gently stroke the tears away with my thumb. She laughs through her crying, placing her hand over mine and squeezing it.

“It could be worse,” she sniffs. “Dad could have given me Alexander Esquire. The man’s sixty years old and smells like tobacco. He told me what you did, you know.” She kisses my hand, then reaches for her coffee. “How you asked to marry me before Alexander did. You saved me from what really would have been a bad marriage. You got a leaf.” She gestures to my coffee cup.

I look at it and feel a twinge of worry in my gut.

For some odd reason, I was hoping for a smiley face.

Not even a perfect one.

One with a crooked smile, perhaps, or one eye slightly off-center.

Narcissa and I spend the day inside.

It’s too damp and cold outside for either of us, so we watch I Love Lucy on my eighty-five-inch screen, a fire snapping and playing in the fireplace just below the television. We munch on popcorn, laugh at Lucy and Ethel’s antics, and part ways for the night. Narcissa goes to her room to call Robbie. I go to the foyer closet and pull out a heavy black pea coat and tartan scarf.

I like to walk Historic Savannah at night.

It’s bitterly cold, sure.

It’s creepy with hints of ghosts and gas lamps that flicker hauntingly in the fog.

It’s quiet and peaceful.

I wander through Forsyth Park, passing the fountain, watching as autumn leaves swirl down in the mist. There aren’t any tourists out tonight. It’s too dark and lonely, perfect for me.

I think about Narcissa, about how I asked her father for her hand so many years ago. I think about the ring on her finger, the light in her eyes when she talks about Robbie, the joy she expressed in talking about normal “human” things.

I wish I could give all that to her.

I make my way across Broughton, taking my usual path, wandering a bit before I end up at River Street and walk alongside the Savannah River.

Something leads me to walk past the Broughton Café. I don’t know if it’s the smell of coffee, the fog, or the gentle tug in my gut.

I walk past the windows and glance inside.

Heather is sitting in my usual spot, resting in the weathered chesterfield chair. Books are scattered across the table. Papers are strewn beneath her open hands. She’s fallen asleep slumped over, her cheek resting on a book, her colorful hair draping over her face like a veil. She looks normal, human, in a heavy coat and jeans, and there are tear stains on her cheeks.

I pause at the window and let my eyes focus.

Vampire Rule Number 8:

Vampires have impeccable sight.

Goes back to the predator and survival thing.

My eyes rest on one page, her instructor’s evaluation.

64%.

Ugh. My stomach twists for her at the failing grade, but then I catch sight of her instructor’s notes. I catch the words “lackluster” and “uninformative” and cringe. Lackluster? Really? From what I can see, her paper was on Prohibition and its impact on Savannah. This is a subject she would be passionate about, and I find it hard to believe she would fail at making the topic interesting.

I go in before reason stops me.

Claire is there this evening. She waves from behind the counter and watches as I sit in the chair across from Heather.

I have no idea what I’m doing. The girl’s asleep, and I’m sitting across from her like I’m some kind of close friend. I lean forward, debating whether I should wake her or not, when I catch sight of a check peeking out from beneath her paper.

It’s none of my business, but I can’t resist.

I tug the check carefully out from beneath her report, just enough to understand what it is.

It’s a check in the sum of five thousand dollars written to the hospital.

And it’s bounced.

I glance up as Claire walks toward me, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her hands. I can smell it before she sets it on the table. The rich chocolate and cream make my mouth water even as I try to find some excuse for why I’m sitting here.

Why am I sitting here?

“Did you want to order something?” Claire asks, putting a hand on Heather’s shoulder and shaking it gently. “I know this is your usual spot. I can ask Heather to move. She won’t mind.”

“No!”

I say it a bit too quickly.

“No.” I lean back and offer my most charming smile.

“I was feeling a little bit lonely,” I say. “I don’t mind her sitting here. It’s not my spot. Not at night, anyway.” I wink, enjoying Claire’s giggle. “That hot chocolate smells wonderful. Would you please make a cup for me? I’ll pay in a minute.”

“Of course!”

Claire shakes Heather’s shoulder again.

“Heath, wake up. Mr. Bristol is here. Your cocoa is waiting for you.”

“Hmm?” Heather mumbles, then opens her eyes. Blue-green irises land on my face, and she sits up abruptly, startled, nearly spilling her cocoa. I put my hand to her cup before it can topple over, then watch her try to smooth out her jacket and her hair.

“Mc…McKenzie,” she stammers. “I’m so sorry! I’m in your chair!”

“It isn’t my chair. You looked a bit lonely. I was out walking and thought I’d stop in.” I watch her pick up her glasses and slide them on before adjusting them with her pinkie. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I saw your final grade on your paper.”

“Oh.”

Her face falls, and she stares at the whipped cream on her hot chocolate.

“I’m afraid I was a bit…distracted. Usually I enjoy writing about Prohibition.” She lifts the drink to her lips and takes a sip, leaving a small whipped-cream mustache above her upper lip. She blushes, licks it off, and I’m utterly distracted by her tongue sliding across her lip. It takes me a second to realize I’m staring, my gaze suddenly fixated on the small scar she has above the right side of her mouth.

“Um,” she continues, her blush deepening. “In all fairness to my instructor, I’d rather write about almost anything else in Savannah, though. It is rich in Revolutionary War history and the Civil War. There are so many more appealing things to me than the Roaring Twenties. Is…is something wrong with my face?” She reaches up and touches her scar, her beautiful eyes uncertain as they meet mine. “I…I sort of gave this mark to myself.”

She’s trying to explain herself to me as though it’s any of my business.

“I…the hairs above my lip come in a bit dark, so I ended up being a bit rough on my face to get rid of them. Anyway. I’m sorry. I can leave. You probably wanted to have some peace.”

“Don’t go,” I answer. “Please. I’m sorry about your paper. Your teacher shouldn’t have called it lackluster. I’ve never seen anyone as passionate about history as you are.”

“Passion doesn’t always make for a good paper.”

She smiles and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

“I’m getting a second chance. I’ll ace it this time.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“How is your fiancée? Narcissa?” Heather asks as Claire gives me my hot chocolate and a lingering glance. “She’s beautiful! I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as beautiful as she is.”

“We came here this morning. She wanted to see you.”

I blow across my cocoa, trying to cool it slightly.

“Me?” Heather asks, pleased.

“She was impressed with your pirate tour. She wanted to see if your latte is as impressive as your knowledge.”

“I’m so glad she liked the tour. I was kind of distracted by my paper and…other things.”

She looks down at her papers, catches sight of the check, and tucks it under her notes.

“You know you don’t have to stay here, right?”

She looks up at me, her eyes concerned.

“It’s late,” she says. “And I bet your fiancée would love to spend time with you.”

“I walk every night, and I don’t mind the company.”

“I’m not super interesting.” Heather gathers her papers and puts them in a folder. “I haven’t traveled much, and all I seem able to talk about is Savannah. I’m not a great conversationalist.”

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. It’s nice just to sit with another person.”

She is shy and quiet as she drinks her hot chocolate, taking extra care to wipe her mouth after every sip, not wanting me to see her messy. I can tell she’s confused about me being here. In truth, I’m confused myself. I’m sitting here on a Monday night in a coffee shop with a young woman I hardly know. I don’t know why I find her fascinating. Maybe it’s like Narcissa mentioned. Maybe it’s because she’s human.

It irritates me that Narcissa asked whether or not I’d smelled her blood.

There’s a rumor. I’m not sure there’s any truth to it, but it bothers me. Supposedly, there is one person in a vampire’s life, only one, whose blood calls to a vampire. It’s not like the movies make it out to be, where it’s sexy. There’s nothing romantic about it. From everything I’ve heard, if Heather’s blood were to “sing” to me, which is a stupid enough phrase, seeing as there’s nothing romantic about it, it would put her in extreme danger. If a normal vampire was drawn to her blood, it could still be dangerous, but for me…

I have a disorder on top of my blood disorder. Only two percent of vampires have it, and I’m one of the lucky two percent.

I have a blood dependency that borders on obscene, like an alcoholic’s dependency on liquor.

It’s not a laughing matter.

If anyone gets so much as a paper cut, it’s a real struggle for me to avoid digging my fangs in and sucking the poor fool dry.

I’ve developed somewhat of a resistance to certain blood types. Generally speaking, if there’s a bandage or clothing between a cut and the air, I’m able to suppress my need. If that wasn’t the case, every woman I came into contact with would be in danger once a month. Not in danger of being turned or being ravaged, but devoured in the true sense of the word.

I hope Heather isn’t my particular brand of bourbon.

Though it would explain a lot.

Like why I’m sitting here now, staring at her as she finishes her hot chocolate.

“I’m going to head home,” she says quietly, tucking her folder into a canvas bag. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

“Do you live far from here? I can walk you home.”

Damn.

Those words spilled out way too fast.

“Um, McKenzie?” Her voice is careful. “Is there any reason…you’re here? Like, with me?”

She’s adorable as she tries to find her words.

“I know you’re super busy, and I know you have a fiancée that seems to at least like you. I’m just me.” She shrugs, almost apologetically. “And I like having you sit with me, but I don’t understand it.”

I smile slightly, dip my spoon into my cocoa, then hand the cup to her.

She glances down into my cup, sees the smiley face I made, and I watch as tears fill her eyes.

Wonderful.

That’s two women I’ve made cry today.

I lean forward, my eyes locked on hers.

“You looked like you needed a smile,” I say.

She sniffs, and a tear slides down her cheek.

“Oh gosh.” She tries to laugh through her tears as she picks up a napkin. “I did need a smile today.”

“Your paper?” I ask, knowing fully well that the check bothers her more than the paper does.

“My grandpa,” she says softly. “He has stomach cancer. He’s seventy-two years old. He and Oma have been letting me live with them in Richmond Hill. I can’t afford to live in Savannah.” She removes her glasses and dabs at her eyes. “Anyway. They haven’t charged me rent or anything. They’ve been so understanding of work and school. I’ve been trying to help them. They don’t have the money for all my grandpa’s needs. I tried to send the hospital a check, but I forgot about my tuition.”

She sniffs again and draws a deep breath.

“It’s my fault. I spent money on something I shouldn’t have. I’m usually so good with money.”

“What was it?” I coax.

“You’ll think I’m stupid, and you’ll be right.”

She reaches into her canvas bag and pulls out a faded green wallet.

A spark of pride lights up her eyes, and I find myself leaning forward, curious about what she bought for herself. This young woman, so eager to help her family, so attuned to the needs of others, intrigues me. Whatever it is she bought, it must be spectacular for her to shine as she does.

She pulls out a strip of plastic and holds it out to me. She can barely contain the excitement in her voice, and I wish she would stop trying to.

“This,” she says, her voice nearly quivering, “is a piece of eight. A real one.”

She’s nearly squealing.

“It has to stay in the plastic because it’s authentic, and I feel foolish carrying it around, but it’s amazing! This one is from 1675, the Golden Age of Piracy. They used to break these into pieces and use different shards as different currencies. I spent seven hundred dollars on this. I shouldn’t have.”

She bought a piece of history.

She’s guilting herself for buying something that fits her character, something precious and rare.

“This is something else,” I say, turning the plastic case over to see the back of the coin.

“I know. Nerd alert,” she says with a grin. “But I love it.”

It is a piece of silver. Not high quality, not sophisticated. The designs on the front and back are faded with time, some parts gone altogether. Heather doesn’t see any of this. The faraway look in her eyes tells me she is no longer here, but she is out on the Atlantic somewhere, sailing with the wind in her hair and salt on her skin. For her, this coin is a teleportation device.

“I wish I could touch it,” she says, informing me that this relic is indeed an escape for her. In its simplicity, she can find herself in another time. “I know that’s crazy, but to touch something that a pirate has touched, that someone from hundreds of years ago threw into a chest with other coins… It just amazes me.”

“Thank you,” I say, handing it back to her. “This is precious. I can see why you bought it.”

“My grandparents said the same thing.” She puts the coin away and tucks her excitement away with it. “I really need to get going. Thank you for offering to walk me, but I’m just in a parking garage a block away. You should get home to Narcissa.”

“Narcissa would have my head if I let you walk alone to your car when it’s this dark out.” I stand up and gather our dishes. “I can walk you to your car, Heather. I’d be honored.”

She nods and watches me place the dirty dishes on a cart.

I open the front door for her and follow her into the night, intrigued and delighted by her presence.