SIX
Letter from Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam to Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam, dated October 26
My Dearest Mrs. Fitzwilliam,
I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits.
A lot has changed in the fortnight since I last wrote. I now live with a young woman by the name of Miss Cassie Greenberg. I am learning a tremendous amount about art, twenty-first-century popular culture, profanity, and attire simply by observing her and being in her very occasional presence. Every day I feel more myself again, and more at ease in this strange modern world.
And so again I ask: please stop worrying so much over me. There is no need for you to write so often, nor for you to repeatedly inquire after my health with Reginald. (Yes, he has told me everything.) I am as sound in mind, body, and spirit as I have ever been.
Furthermore, I must insist you end the arrangement you have made with Miss Jameson on my behalf. I hardly know this woman, and, as you well know, Paris was over a century ago. I would end the arrangement myself, but I think that would not only be unwise, but also unfair to both me and Miss Jameson. Please also ask Miss Jameson to stop sending me gifts. She has ignored my entreaties even though I have sent each gift back to her, unopened as they arrive.
I will write more soon. Give my regards to everyone on the estate. I hope the weather in New York has been very fine.
Love,
Frederick
Hey Frederick,
Would it be okay if I turned the temperature in the apartment up a few degrees? I haven’t wanted to say anything about it since you pay for utilities, but it’s a little colder in here than I’m used to. Even three blankets isn’t cutting it at nighttime.
Cassie
Dear Cassie,
Please accept my apology. Cold temperatures do not bother me the way they do other people, and I should have anticipated you would prefer a warmer place to live. Let me know the temperature I should set the thermostat to for you to be more comfortable and I will take care of it.
I wish you had said something about this to me earlier. I hate the idea that you’ve been uncomfortable since moving in.
FJF
ps: That picture you drew of yourself wearing a parka and mittens is adorable, though it does make me feel like even more of a heel for keeping you in the cold for so long.
Frederick,
Thank you!!!!! I didn’t like the idea of you having higher utility bills because of me, though (which is why I didn’t say something earlier). Can I pay the difference?
(Also, I’m glad you like the picture. Adorable, though?! I spent like 5 minutes on it. The mittens are totally lopsided.)
Cassie
Cassie,
Do not worry about the difference in the utility bill. I will cover it.
And if you drew something that precious in only five minutes I daresay you are very talented indeed. I find the lopsided mittens especially charming.
FJF
I was halfway down the block towards the el, on my way to my library shift, when I realized I’d forgotten my sketchpad.
I glanced at my phone. It was Night at the Museum night at the library, and the children would start showing up in forty-five minutes. I couldn’t draw at work with a library full of kids armed with paintbrushes, but at that hour there were usually some open seats on the train so I could sketch en route. I was in the beginning stages of thinking through what my piece would be for the art exhibition. My conversation with Frederick the other night about my art had provided a little inkling of a submission idea: I’d create a traditionally painted pastoral scene—a field of daisies, possibly a pond—and then subvert it with something decidedly unpastoral, like plastic wrap or soda straws worked into the canvas.
It was still early days, and I had more thinking to do before I was ready to put paint to canvas. But I’d been taking my sketchpad with me everywhere I went in case inspiration and a few minutes’ free time happened to coincide.
It was just after six. I had just enough time to run back home, get my sketchpad, and then get to the library in time for art night. It would be tight, and Marcie would likely be a little irritated with me—but I’d make it.
I took the stairs up to our apartment two at a time, not worrying about how much noise I made. I didn’t know if Frederick was home, but at this hour he’d either be already awake or out. Either way, I didn’t have to worry about waking him up.
My sketchpad was where I’d left it on the kitchen table, beside the note I’d left for Frederick earlier that morning:
Hey Frederick—I won’t be home much the next few days. I have a late shift tonight and I’m having dinner at Sam’s tomorrow. So could you take out the trash this week? Thanks! I promise I’ll do it next week.
Cassie
At the bottom of the note, I’d sketched a little smiling cartoon guy holding a trash can above his head. Frederick claimed to like my little drawings, and his compliments—always worded in such formal language, but seemingly genuine all the same—always made my stomach do a funny little swoop.
As I picked up my sketchpad from the kitchen table I noticed he’d written a short reply:
Dear Cassie,
Yes, I can take out the trash can. It is no trouble whatsoever, and you do not need to worry about “making it up to me.”
Additionally, that drawing is very nice (all of your drawings are very nice, everything about you is very nice) but is that supposed to be me? I am certain I never smile quite like that.
Yours,
FJF
He’d added his own drawing of a stick figure to the note, with an exaggerated frown nearly as big as its head. I couldn’t help but laugh.
The drawing was so silly.
And Frederick was about the furthest thing from silly a person could be.
Or so I’d thought, anyway.
Also—the Yours, FJF?
Yours.
That was new.
I refused to let myself think about what it could mean. All the same, I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face as I picked up my sketchpad.
I was still smiling as I opened the fridge to grab an apple before leaving for the library.
But when I saw what was inside, my face froze.
My entire body froze.
Time stopped.
After what might have been multiple minutes of my staring numbly at the contents of the refrigerator, I began to shriek.
My sketchpad slipped from my hands and fell to the ground, forgotten. I continued staring into the fridge, my mind reeling as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
There had to be at least thirty bags of blood in there, arranged in orderly rows alongside a bowl of kumquats, my half-finished gallon of orange juice, and a box of Velveeta. Each bag was labeled by blood type and date, and bore the kind of barcode sticker I vaguely remembered being put on blood donation bags when I’d donated in the past.
The sharp, metallic tang of blood was thick, filling the air and nearly making me gag.
Unlike what I’d seen at blood centers, not all these bags were sealed. Some were nearly empty, with a pair of small puncture wounds at the top. Blood dribbled from one of them, leaving a small, sticky, red and drying puddle on the middle shelf.
None of it had been there that morning.
Why was it there now?
I was still standing in front of the open fridge, gaping at its contents, growing dizzy at the smell of blood and at the shock of what I’d found but too stunned to move away, when the front door to the apartment opened. I distantly heard the heavy tread of Frederick’s footsteps as he stepped inside.
“Frederick,” I called out, my voice thick. “What . . . what is all this doing here?”
Something very heavy dropped to the floor. And then came Frederick’s strangled gasp.
“Oh, fuck.”
I looked at him, my hand still tight around the handle of the refrigerator door. Frederick’s eyes were saucer-wide, his hands clutching at his hair in both hands. There was a large package wrapped in bright pink wrapping paper and tied with a pale pink ribbon at his feet. “Please—I can explain. Don’t . . . don’t get hysterical.”
I gaped at him. “I wasn’t getting hysterical before you said that.”
He buried his face in his hands. “You . . . weren’t supposed to see that. You said you’d be gone tonight. I—”
“Frederick?”
“This was not how any of this was supposed to go.”
I waited for him to continue, to explain why I’d just found bags of blood in the same place I kept my breakfast. When he just continued standing there, gaping at me open-mouthed like a fish out of water, I closed my eyes and let the fridge door swing closed.
I counted slowly to ten, breathing deeply through my nose to try and calm down. “Frederick—” I began.
“Did you get any O-negative this time, Freddie? I’m famished.” A loud male voice came in from the hallway, his words so hard to process they made the rest of whatever I’d been about to say die in my throat. A moment later, a vaguely familiar-looking guy with dirty-blond hair strode into the apartment like he owned the place, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans. His black T-shirt said This Is What a Clarinet Player Looks Like, and stretched a little too tightly across his chest.
All at once I realized where I’d seen him before.
He was the weird guy in the trench coat and fedora who appraised me at Gossamer’s the other night.
I was stuck on what he’d just said.
Did you get any O-negative this time, Freddie? I’m famished.
I tried to make sense of what I was hearing, but my brain felt sluggish—like it was processing things at half its normal rate of speed.
I had no idea who weird coffee shop guy was or why he was there. He, however, recognized me right away.
“Hey, Cassie Greenberg.” He sounded surprised to see me but not unhappy about it. He grinned, showing off perfectly straight, gleaming white teeth. He reached out his hand towards me. After an awkward beat I realized he wanted me to shake it. Slowly, as though moving through a dream, I clasped his hand in mine.
It was like holding onto a block of ice.
“I’m Reggie,” he said, still smiling. “We met the other night at the café.” He paused. “Well. Sort of met, anyway.”
Reggie.
Was this the Reginald Frederick had mentioned a few times in passing? He gave my hand a few quick pumps before I pulled out of his grip.
I looked between him and Frederick—who, for his part, looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole—trying to understand what was going on.
“I told Freddie he needed to come clean with you.” Reggie elbowed Frederick in the ribs good-naturedly. “But I gather from the look on your face that he didn’t listen to me.”
He jabbed Frederick in the ribs again—more forcefully this time. But Frederick was clearly ignoring him. His eyes bore into mine, beseeching me wordlessly to understand . . . something.
“Miss Greenberg,” he began, sounding desperate. “Cassie,” he amended.
“What do you need to come clean with me about, Frederick?” Instinct told me I couldn’t trust Reggie—Reginald—as far as I could throw him. But Frederick’s desperation confirmed that he was right about at least one thing: there was a lot Frederick wasn’t telling me.
“Speak up, Freddie!” Reggie encouraged. He clapped Frederick on the back.
“Leave,” Frederick muttered, his tone murderous. “Now.”
“In a minute,” Reggie said, in a light singsong. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a good show.” He stepped fully into the living room, moving around both Frederick and the large, wrapped package at his feet, and then strode directly to the kitchen, where I still stood rooted to the spot beside the fridge of doom.
“I think I’ll have a snack before I go,” he whispered in my ear, conspiratorially. He opened the fridge with a flourish, then reached inside and scooped up several plastic bags of blood.
My eyes went wide.
With a wink at me, Reggie bit into one of the bags with what looked, to me, a hell of a lot like fangs.
As I watched him drink the bag down, then toss it into the trash—empty in seconds, drained entirely dry—and bite into a second, I felt the room start to spin. I’d never been a particularly squeamish person; but then, nothing in any of my life experiences had prepared me for what I was seeing now.
“Reginald,” Frederick growled warningly. “Get out. Now.”
He pouted. “But I just got here! We were going to have a little party before your roommate got here.”
“Reginald.”
“Freddie.” Reginald rolled his eyes. “Stop being silly. You’re just as hungry as I am. Don’t you want a snack, too?”
Without waiting for an answer, Reggie grabbed another bag from the fridge and tossed it to Frederick—who caught it, easily.
The sight of Frederick—my roommate who stayed out all night for cryptic reasons and slept all day, who dressed in vintage suits and spoke like someone from a different era—holding a bag of blood . . .
The last piece of the puzzle slid into place.
I knew exactly what he hadn’t been telling me.
“Frederick . . .” I began, the floor beneath my feet going decidedly wobbly.
How was any of this real?
Frederick cleared his throat. “It occurs to me that it is long past time I told you several . . . very specific things about myself.” He was glaring at Reginald, but it was clear he was talking to me. He had the decency to sound sheepish. Which . . . well. Good. I was pretty sure he’d been lying to my face about a lot of very important things since I’d met him.
Feeling bad about it was certainly a step in the right direction.
“Go on,” I prompted.
“I’m . . . not what you think I am.”
I snorted. “I figured.” My words came out frostier than I’d meant them to. But come on. Did he think I was an idiot? “What are you, though?”
I knew, though. A person would have to be pretty dim to stumble upon their roommate’s blood stash, and watch his friend help himself to some of it like it was something he did every day, and not immediately realize some pretty uncomfortable truths.
I still needed to hear him say it, though. After a lifetime of thinking people like Frederick only existed in young adult novels and old horror movies, it was the only way I’d believe what I’d seen with my own two eyes.
Frederick sighed, running a hand over his perfect face. He bit his lip, hesitating—and, no, my eyes were not helplessly drawn to the way his white teeth pressed into the soft, plump flesh of his bottom lip. I was done fantasizing about my unfairly hot roommate. That phase of my life was one hundred percent over.
“I am a vampire, Cassie.”
His voice was very quiet, but his words blew through me with the force of a hurricane. I’d already guessed the truth, but I still stumbled under the weight of his confession.
All at once, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.
I had to get out of there.
Now.
Sam and Scott would take me in. Getting them to believe my roommate was a vampire might be difficult, but—
No. Getting them to believe my roommate was a vampire would be impossible. Sam was a lawyer, and Scott was an academic. They didn’t have enough imagination between them to change a light bulb. And I’d always been the eccentric friend. The one who could throw killer bachelor parties and collected existential crises like Pokémon, but who was perennially messing up in most important areas of her life.
They’d probably think I was delusional if I told the truth.
But it didn’t matter. They’d see I was desperate when I showed up late at night and unannounced. They’d take me in.
I had to laugh over how stupid I’d been. I’d started having feelings for Frederick. Meanwhile, he’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to bite my neck!
“Cassie,” Frederick said, looking panicked. “I can explain.”
“I think you just did.”
“I did not. I gave you some information that I should have shared with you at the outset, but—”
I huffed a breath. “I’ll say.”
He looked chastened, gaze dropping to the floor. “I would still like a chance to explain myself fully. If you will allow it.”
But I was already inching my way towards the front door. “What is there to explain? You’re a vampire. You’ve been biding your time, waiting for your chance to pounce on me, sink your teeth into my neck, and drink my blood.”
“No,” Frederick said, emphatically. He shook his head. “It has never been my intention to harm you.”
“Why should I believe you?”
He paused, considering my question. “I realize that I have not given you much reason to trust me. But really, Cassie. If I were going to feed from you, wouldn’t I have done so before now?”
I stared at him. “That’s supposed to be reassuring?”
He winced. “It . . . sounded better in my head,” he admitted. “But please believe me when I say that for all intents and purposes I have not fed on a living human in over two hundred years.”
In over two hundred years.
The room went all spinny again as the full extent of what he was telling me sunk in.
Frederick wasn’t just a vampire.
He was also seriously, seriously old.
“I can’t do this,” I mumbled. I had to get away. “I’m leaving.”
“Cassie—”
“I’m leaving,” I said, stumbling out of the kitchen. “Throw out all my stuff if you want. I don’t care.”
“Cassie.” Frederick’s voice sounded pained. “Please, let me explain. I need your help.”
But I was already throwing open the front door of the apartment and dashing down the stairs, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.