Page 33 of Vampires of Eden

The moment Daniel leaves I roll my shoulders and bristle. Jesus Christ his energy is weird—like a staticky and invasive frisson. It makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

He apologized. The mature thing to do is accept his sentiment and move on. But I’m not letting my guard down again.

When he comes back a few minutes later, Roland is with him and carrying a large bucket and two wooden batons. Daniel has a couple trowels, a drill and what I’m assuming is the pipe detector gathered in his arms.

“Let me know if you two need anything else,” Roland says, setting the bucket down. “This adhesive needs to be mixed, so I’ll grab the paddle for the drill—I think it’s upstairs.”

“Thanks Roland,” Daniel says, stepping toward the wall and examining my lines.

“No problem. Everyone be niiiice, pleeeease.” Roland wiggles his eyebrows and grins before leaving us alone.

Quietly, I’m dreading this, but I’m prepared. If Daniel lashes out again, at least I know it’s coming. This is how you survive in Eden’s aristocracy.

“Your lines and measurements look good,” he says, turning from the wall and stepping over to grab the measuring tape. “It’s similar to what I did for the bathroom in the main hall. We’re using the same tiles, so that’s a good sign. Let’s finish thelines, check for the pipes, get the adhesive mixed and wrap all of this up today? I think we can do it.”

Nodding, I grab the level, take the pencil I’ve stashed behind my ear and meet him at the wall. “Okay.”

To my great surprise, we work efficiently and, most important, politely. Daniel doesn’t say anything rude, but instead, expertly guides me in mixing and applying the adhesive. How to use the trowel and notch spreader to make sure the adhesive is smooth and even, so that the tile surface is flat and consistent.

Finally, the tiles go on and we coordinate our efforts by putting in tiny separators to make sure the spacing between each tile is properly aligned. Occasionally, and when he tells me to, I use the level to make sure our work is even and straight.

After a couple hours—and a lot of bending and squatting toward the end on my part—I stand back and marvel at the finished product. The tiles gleam under the light and it gives the bathroom a bright, modernized feel.

It’s amazing how much I enjoyed this—allowing my full attention to be focused on something new and interesting. Cutting the tile with a scribe and snapping it was cool, too. I didn’t break a single tile, (Daniel predicted that I would, because he’s an asshole). Even the tedious task of clearing out excessive adhesive on the tiles and between the grout lines was oddly satisfying.

While we were working together on spacing out and laying the tiles, a memory flashed in my mind. Me as a young vampire, watching Daniel play the piano for a small audience in that candlelit drawing room at the Álvarez Estate near the eastern moors.

I remember it was a warm autumn night. The dramatically tall doors to the outer garden were opened wide as the backdrop for his performance. The gauzy curtains were drawn, billowing in the soft breeze and glowing in ethereal moonlight. He sat at that stunning grand piano and played into the night—into the dryingwhisper of autumnal leaves and brush. Into the soul of every vampire seated in that room.

Fourteen-year-old me sat there wide-eyed and deeply moved. Entranced by Daniel and the night. The magic, beauty and melody. I was thinking that this vampire is the most talented creature I’ve ever seen. I asked my father if he could convince him to become my piano teacher, but Father was much more interested in featuring him at the Royal Eden Opera House—his top tier theater at the heart of Central Eden.

Neither of those things happened.

Back then, I was awestruck.

Now, I think I was a naïve and silly kid. What the hell did I know?

“I told you we could finish faster if we worked together,” Daniel says, bending and clearing up the bits of hardened adhesive from the floor.

“You did,” I say blandly as I stand at the sink, squeezing out the sponge I used to wipe the tiles down.

“Do you mind carrying the adhesive bucket to the upstairs bathroom? That’s where we’ll use it next.”

“Sure.” I turn off the water, give the sponge a final squeeze and quickly wipe off the counter.

“You’re still angry about what I said.”

The comment materializes from nowhere. Slowly, I look over my shoulder. His pale eyes blaze into me and I shrug. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says. “Don’t lie. You’ve barely said anything this whole time. I apologized, but you only said, ‘Sure,’ like, ‘Sure, but you’re still a jackass.’”

“You are,” I say reflexively. “A callous jackass.” I turn back around, suddenly embarrassed. Wow. Fourteen-year-old me has entered the chat.

Daniel chuckles. “Alright, I’ll take that assessment. Do you know why? Because I appreciate your honesty.”

“Is this honesty?” I ask, frowning. “You saying hurtful shit to me and me calling you a jackass?”

“Mm.” Daniel nods, folding his arms. “It’s refreshing. Transparent.”