Abira Shinde

CONTENT WARNING: Bereavement, mild substance abuse

Jules Dawns. The Belizaire girl is gone because of you.

The words — written in bloodied scarlet — burned into Parvati’s mind. Time seemed to slow: her breath was shallow, yet her lungs seemed close to bursting. 

She didn’t know what to do.

But luckily, Jules did. Her grandmother brought chairs, wiped away Rukmini’s tears, and picked up her crumpled rose. For the next few minutes, all Parvati did was focus on her grandmother’s commanding voice.

Why, the officer wondered, Is the warning directed to you?

Jules touched her choker, eyes stormy with thought.

I’m not the biggest friend of the feral undead, she said. Perhaps a vampire is trying to avenge lost power or a slain mate.

The officer left.

Parvati, who slept in a room next to her sister, heard Rukmini crying all night. She was too numb to comfort her, but she heard loping, uneven footsteps. Jules would care for Rukmini.

Parvati thought through Mira’s traits. Her quietness, her sensitivity, and, above all, her compassion.

Mira cared so deeply it cut. That was why her parents’ sternness hurt her, and why she accepted it anyway.

…

And it was in memory of Mira, and regret over not warning the seemingly loyal officer, that Parvati woke at five in the morning. She pinned Mira’s gift — the black-tipped rose — to her lilac-and-orange checkered shirt, and got to work on her board.

Not fifteen minutes later, someone knocked on the door. Parvati hastily threw the sheet over the board. 

“Come in,” she called.

The door opened, and Rukmini, bags beneath her gray eyes, stepped in.

Parvati had not been expecting her.

“Rukmini,” she said. “Are you okay?” 

Rukmini shut the door. “I know what you’re doing, Parv. Gran’s sleeping in my room. We’ve got time to plan.” 

“I don’t understand,” Parvati said.

“I want to stop that fucking vampire,” Rukmini said, voice shaking with fury. “I want to help kill her.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Parvati stammered. “You should, um, maybe have a drink to clear your thoughts?”

“I’ve had all night to clear my thoughts!” Rukmini took a deep breath. “Look, I know you think I’m too angry to think straight. But I also know you can’t fight to save your life. And when it comes to popularity —”

“Having friends in high school does not mean you’ll be good at hunting vampires,” Parvati whisper-hissed. 

“It does mean you’ll have connections,” Rukmini retorted. “And punching good does play into how well you fight those damned bloodsuckers. You’re the one who told me that.” 

Parvati bit her lip and looked away. Rukmini was a good head taller than Parvati, and so physically competent that a kickboxing challenge between her and a high school senior ended with the young man going to the hospital for stitches.

Judging by the amount of apology letters Rukmini ended up writing, she hadn’t even been trying to hurt the boy.

But the idea of dragging her kid sister into this mess twisted Parvati’s heart.

“Fighting a vampire — especially a feral one — isn’t like fighting a person,” she said softly. “Salt is the only thing that can hurt them, and even then, they’ll survive wounds that would kill the living. I want to avoid fighting them.”

“All the more reason for me to help,” Rukmini said. “Please, Parv.” 

Parvati bit her lip. “Just promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.” 

Rukmini shot Parvati a disbelieving look. “Fine words coming from you.” 

“I mean it.” 

“Ugh! Fine,” Rukmini said. “Now, tell me how to help.” 

Parvati reluctantly lifted the sheet over her board. Rukmini studied it for a moment. She tapped a sketch of Hector Blair.

“He’s got a drug addiction?”

“So I’ve been told. Why?”

“Your board says Blair usually hangs around the strip mall on Waverly Street. Bluewood High is on Waverly Street, and, I mean, the French bathroom is notorious.” 

“For drugs,” Parvati said, anxiety spiking.

Rukmini shot Parvati a cocky grin. “Exactly. I’ll bet my classmates get their hits from the same place he does.” 

“It’s not a bad idea,” Parvati begrudgingly admitted. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Parvati, you are literally hunting vampires,” Rukmini said.

Parvati scowled at her, and Rukmini held up her hands. “I’ll be careful.” 

“Swear it.” 

“What good will that do? I can just go back my word —” 

“Rukmini, for the love of god —” 

“I swear it.” 

Parvati bit back a sigh. Five minutes in, and she already felt like this investigation was spiraling out of control.

…

But fate (with fate meaning Jules Dawns) had other plans.

The sisters had just finished eating breakfast, when Jules’s sharp, tired voice carried downstairs.

“Girls? Could ‘ya be ready by noon?”

Parvati stood up; Rukmini glanced over curiously as their grandmother traipsed downstairs. 

“The Belizaires want to meet us,” she said, as an explanation. Her voice softened. “I figured it was the least I could do, after — what happened with Mira.” 

Parvati didn’t have to look at Rukmini to know how she was feeling. She could barely begin to guess the depths of Noe and Rohini’s terror. 

“Of course we’ll go,” the sisters said as one. 

…

They got into Jules’ car. Parvati shotgun, Rukmini, the back seat. Jules drove. 

She revved up the car, twisted the AC to combat the blistering heat, and then they were off. Past the golden-green grasses, through the curving country roads, and to Bluewood proper, with its graying strip malls and softly-rumbling traffic.

Parvati glanced up at a billboard, and her heart juddered. 

Shining with newness, the billboard presented a thing. It was built as a man was built, with long-lashed eyes where a human’s eyes would be. But its skin was redder than roses and blood. Six twisting, goatian horns protruded from its skull. Beside it were phone numbers and website addresses, to help people when the vampires came knocking.

For Bill Six-Horns had been a vampire, the last vampire Sovereign in the mainland USA. Jules’ final act as a vampire hunter was to kill him, but not before he burned down a town. She had lost her leg to him, or one of his Soldiers.

He’d killed nearly ten thousand people before he’d been caught. 

He was on that poster as a warning. 

Parvati glanced away — And saw her grandmother’s face. Jules’ skin was the color of ashes.

“Grandma?” Parvati asked.

Jules didn’t answer. 

They approached a light; the light went yellow. Jules didn’t slow. The right went red. Jules didn’t stop. 

Instead, the car picked up speed. Vehicles around them screeched to halts — horns pounded through the air. 

Parvati stared at her grandmother, at the dashboard, and back at her grandmother again. Jules’ eyes were hollow as an unfilled grave; the car continued speeding.

We’re going to hit something, Parvati thought. She’s still got her foot on the gas pedal — howdoIstopher —

“Gran,” Rukmini said from the backseat, voice soft and soothing. “Focus on getting to the Belizaires. They wanna meet up, remember? We’re with you — everybody’s with you.” 

Color returned to Jules’ cheeks. The hollow of her eyes filled. 

Parvati could’ve hugged Rukmini for her genius. 

“Bill Six-Horns is dead,” she added, eager to help her sister. “You stopped the vampire —”

Seeing her grandmother’s face, Parvati shut up. 

“Don’t — say — that,” Jules choked. 

The car whirred around a turn — the pressure jerked Parvati back — her teeth clattered — they rushed past a sign — they were going fifty in a thirty area —

“Grandma, we’ll be fine,” Rukmini was saying, but Jules wasn’t listening —

A red light burned in Parvati’s vision. To the left, and approaching, was a narrow, empty passage —

Gritting her teeth and gathering her nerve, Parvati grabbed the steering wheel, and turned the vehicle into the back lane, where nobody was. 

“Rukmini,” Parvati said grimly, “take the steering wheel. I’ll get Grandma’s foot off the gas.” 

The buckle unclicked; Rukmini, knuckles white, took the steering wheel. Jules didn’t stop Parvati as she pulled her leg up slightly, softening her foot on the gas. 

In a minute, the car slowed; Jules breaked on her own accord. They switched seats. 

“Parv?” Rukmini asked, once everyone was situated. “I think we should stop at that one ice cream parlor. Ya’know, the one you like, Gran? It might help you relax.”

Jules gave a fragile nod, and Parvati sped off. They reached it in a minute. 

Cheerful music infected the car; the parlor was painted with saccharine pinks and yellows, surrounded by gaggles of people in their sweatstained tees and billowsome skirts.

“Grandma?” Rukmini asked. “Can you hear me?”

“Ye-yes,” Jules replied. 

“We need to get out of the car,” Rukmini said. “We’re getting ice cream. Can’ya do that?”

Jules buried her face in her hands. “I am so, so sorry,” she said, so brokenly Parvati felt cut from the inside. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said fiercely. 

Jules straightened, and was quiet. 

Parvati wanted to help. But how did one help a woman like Jules?

“Do you wanna go inside?” Rukmini’s voice broke the silence. “It might take our minds off… stuff.” 

“Sure,” Jules said. She shook her head, muttered a curse, and reached for the door. 

Then, she stopped.

“Shit,” she said. “I forgot about the Belizaires. They’ll be expecting us, and Noe has work at two.” 

“I’ll go,” Parvati offered on impulse. “You and Rukmini can — Grandma!” 

For Jules had spun around with lighting quickness; Jules grabbed her sleeve, and yanked Parvati toward her, with such force it hurt. 

“You’re going nowhere,” Jules said. “I’ll go.” 

“Rukmini can’t drive,” Parvati replied, trying to sound soothing. “I won’t make any rash promises, or do anything reckless, I swear.” 

The words sat rotten in her gut, given her actions throughout the week. 

Maybe Jules could sense it, too, for her gray eyes turned to ice fury. Her lip turned up in a snarl. Parvati shrank away from that gaze. 

“You are my successor, Parvati,” Jules said viciously. “Damn you for it, girl! Damn you, and damn me ten times more for allowing it to happen.” 

And then, the door was opening, and warmth and sunshine poured into the car. Rukmini dragged Jules out, and promised to buy Parvati ice cream. A letter was shoved into Parvati’s hands, and now Rukmini’s eyes were wider, more vulnerable. 

“It’s for Noe and Rohini,” she said. “I wrote it, after what happened to Mira.” 

Rukmini and Jules entered that overbright ice cream parlor, and disappeared from Parvati’s sight.

…

As she drove away, Parvati played her mother’s old playlist of 90s Bollywood songs. Her Hindi had rusted over the years, and the songs were thirty years out of fashion. But she still had the comfort of memory: of Devi Kalidas’s voice ringing, out of tune, to the melodies of her youth. 

And Parvati deeply needed comfort. Jules’ frightened actions and cruel words were in the front of her mind until she reached the Belizaire home. 

Theirs was a perfectly suburban house. Even in the height of moistureless summer, the grass was exquisite emerald. Despite being cookie-cutter, the building was so clean, the flower patches so sharply landscaped, it looked haughty.

Parvati barely had the chance to ring the doorbell before Noe answered. Stubble scuffed his usually clean-shaven cheeks. His preppy dress shirt was wrinkled and stained. 

“Parvati,” Noe said, smiling weakly. “Thank you for coming. Where’s the rest of the family?”

“Grandma saw a poster of Bill Six-Horns,” Parvati answered. “She, um, didn’t take it well.” 

Noe’s perfectly-tweezed brows shot up his forehead.

“Theses attacks have been getting to her. Is she alright?” 

“She’s doing better,” Parvati said. “Rukmini’s with her at an ice cream parlor.” 

Pavati  reached into her pocket, pulled out the envelope, and handed it to Noe. “Rukmini wanted to give this to you and Rohini. And I’m very sorry about Mira. She’s a sweet girl, and has always been very kind to my sister.”

Noe’s dark eyes suddenly seemed overbright. He muttered a thanks, then stood aside and gestured Parvati into the house. 

“I should warn you,” He whispered, as she passed. “Rohini’s been drinking.” 

Parvati nodded.

Noe led her to the dining room. 

The hallway was lined with Mira’s trophies, an odd family habit Parvati was mostly used to. But now, her eyes kept wandering to the silky ribbons and shiny metals. English competition prizes, mostly, though those petered out as the years went by and the Belizaires  insisted Mira turn focus on mathematics. 

Music softly played. Usually, the Belizaires preferred the strings of the classical Indian sitar, and the thudding tabla, or the rhythms of rap Kreyòl. 

But today, Parvati was greeted by the strains of indie artists with a fascination for gothic literature. Mira’s favorite music. 

They entered the dining room. Fried fish, spicy coleslaw, and striking black rice — diri djon djon — waited beside empty plates. The rice surprised Parvati: it gained its distinctive coloring through a mushroom that grew exclusively in northern Haiti. It was so rare, she’d only seen the Belizaires break it out at holidays, like Diwali or Flag Day.   

It also happened to be Mira’s favorite delicacy. 

Rohini sat at that table, hunched over a book. An empty bottle was toppled over beside her, and she drank down a second one. 

Noe swore in Kreyòl, and rushed to his wife.

“Babe,” he said gently. “What’d I say about drinking? We’d better save that bottle for tomorrow —”

Rohini turned toward him. Ruddy liquid dripped down her chin, and onto the pages of her book. Her eyes were pink from crying; black, glittery mascara leaked down her tawny cheeks.

Parvati had never seen Rohini drunk before.

“There are children,” Rohini slurred. “Children in this book — they die.” 

Agony shot through Noe’s face. He bit his lip, then knelt, cupping his wife’s face. 

“They’ll be alright,” he said. “You know how those fantasy books are. The kids will always be okay in the end.”

“They get stabbed through with bone spears,” Rohini said, almost dreamily. “And they die, first the brother, then the sister. And they stay dead, like we do.”  

“Then stop reading the book,” Noe said, almost pleading. He took it from her hands, giving Parvati a good look at the cover. It was one of Mira’s fantasy novels.  He flipped through it. His face went ashen; he closed it. 

“Parvati,” he said weakly. “Could you take this, and —” He trailed off, lips and eyelids screwing shut.

Parvati took it. “Do you want me to throw it away?”

Noe’s eyes flashed open. “No. She loved the damn thing, we’re keeping it.” 

Then he smiled, fragilely. “Sorry for swearing.”  

“I can put it on the desk, in the sitting room,” Parvati offered. 

“Sure,” Noe said.

Parvati went back through the hallway, and put Mira’s book down on the shelf, beside her trophies. These were rare math trophies; one was for third place, the other a consolation prize. 

Parvati looked at the book Mira loved, and the prizes she probably hadn’t cared about, and felt deeply discomforted. 

Here was a life told through memorabilia, and the only people who needed their lives told through memorabilia were ghosts. It was why people collected the discarded possessions of dead loved ones, and historians so carefully guarded crumbling artifacts. 

It was a reminder of what had been, and what would, if not protected, be lost forever.

Parvati knew the feeling well. 

When her parents had died in that car crash, she clung to their every belonging, even a busted pen, or the unspooled thread of a cotton shawl. 

Even now, she could hear her mother’s soft, lightly accented voice, reading to her from those Amar Chitra Katra comic books. She felt the phantom touch of her father’s lightly calloused palm, his ink-splashed hands guiding hers as he taught her to sketch and draw.

Losing them had been like being gutted, then clumsily stuffed back up with melancholy and that horrible question — why — because the real answer was the mundanity of a  car crash. 

Studying death had dulled the ache; knowing that others suffered under similar happenstance replaced her sorrow with empathy.

But what Noe and Rohini faced now was premeditated cruelty. 

And that sort of pain could always be averted.

Parvati returned to the Belizaires.

Noe was sitting at the table. Rohini, sans wine bottle, slumped listlessly against him. A plate across from them, likely for Parvati, was laden with food. Noe was reading Rukmini’s letter. 

He put it down, and looked at her with unnerving intensity.

“Rukmini says Jules refuses to help,” he said, in politely clipped tones. “And that the police have betrayed us — though we figured as much. She says you investigate the undead, and can help us.”

Parvati hadn’t wanted to tell the Belizaries her plan — she had thought to ask them about the details of Mira’s disappearance by using Rukmini’s melancholy curiosity as a cover.

“Has she said anything else?” Parvati asked.

Noe blinked rapidly, and looked away. “Well, she confessed her crush on Mira, but a blind bat could see that from a mile away.”

He brushed his hands over his eyelids. They came away damp. 

Steeling herself, Parvati stepped forward. 

“I can look into Mira’s disappearance—” she started.

Noe looked up. His eyes were red, his nose dripping.

“No more children will get hurt,” he said. “I won’t let you —” 

His voice broke; he buried his face in his hands.

Parvati put her hands on his shoulders.

“It will be okay,” she said. And then, unable to lie: “I will try my hardest to fix it, at least.”

A minute passed, maybe two: Noe’s shoulders sometimes shook, and he sighed and moaned. 

His quiet sobs eventually receded. He straightened, and wiped his eyes.

“Thank you, Parvati,” he said. “I’ll go wash up. Be flattered if you’d stay for dinner.”

He rose, and rested his hand on her head. 

“You’re a good kid. You’ve got a heart of gold, and a mind like a steel trap.  Don’t throw them away in the name of impotent heroics.”

There it was again, the assumption of her weakness.

Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn’t.

But nobody in Parvati’s family had been fragile. How could she know if she’d break that tradition, unless she tried her hand at strength?

Noe returned. They ate — the food was delicious— and chatted about unimportant things. Even dour-faced Rohini picked at her meal, which was a relief.

They finished, and Noe was bringing in a box of expensive European chocolates, when Rohini made her declaration. 

“You are wearing Mira’s pendant,” she said, in a strong, slightly slurring voice.

“Yes,” Parvati said. “It is a beautiful, thoughtful gift.”

“Nobody is helping us,” Rohini said. “And we know too little to help ourselves.”

She stood, swaying slightly, eyes like boiling, glitter-laced ink. 

“You’ve been ignoring everyone since these attacks started!” She snarled. “Have you any moral fiber left, or did hunting steal that away from you?”

Parvati nearly dropped her cacao and rose truffle.

“Rohini!” Noe cried, over a mouthful of white chocolate and caramel. He stood, trying to soothe his still-drunk wife.

She didn’t even look at him. 

“Jules,” she said, staring at Parvati, and everything clicked into place.

Rohini was so drunk, she mistook Parvati for her grandmother. 

“Help her, Jules,” Rohini begged. “Please, save our daughter.”

Parvati took Rohini’s trembling hands. She looked Rohini in her frantic eyes.

“I’ll help her,” she said, voice shakier than intended.

Rohini’s gloss-painted lips slashed into a smile. She drooped slightly; the light in her eyes dulled with drunken tiredness. 

Noe hefted her into his arms, left the room, and set her on their bed. Parvati brought the now-unconscious Rohini some pain pills and water, for she’d have a splitting headache when she woke. 

“Sorry about that,” Noe said, not for the first time.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Parvati replied. “And, um — Mr. Belizaire? I was wondering, about the information on Mira’s disappearance —”

Noe’s face turned stony. 

“No.” 

“It’s for Grandma,” Parvati lied. “I don’t know if she’ll help, but she knows Mira. I think, if we give her the information —” 

Noe leaned down, so he was closer to her height. His eyes were wide, frantic, reminding Parvati of her grandmother’s episode in the car.

“I know I’m young,” Parvati said earnestly. “And weak. But I am Jules’ granddaughter. If anyone can change her mind, it’s me. And I think the reports might jog her back to hunting.”

Noe straightened, pity twisting his lips. 

“You’re just a dumb kid,” he said bitterly. “Like Mira. you should — I dunno. Study. Play with friends. Or — or —  read those stupid wizard novels we always kept her from. You’re too early in life to waste a second of it, Parvati.” 

“Then can I give you something?” Parvati asked.

Noe scoffed, but Parvati pulled out her phone and showed him the contacts of Bluewood’s Vampire Museum and curator. 

“You see here, how it says the Vampire Museum was created as an anti-vampire league, and still technically holds those credentials?”

“Yes?”

“That means you can legally go to the curator with confidential information related to the undead.”

Noe stared at her. “If he could help, he’d have done it already.”

“You can’t help without necessary information,” Parvati returned. “And I’ll bet the police are purposely keeping him in the dark.” She smiled up at Noe. “But you can change that.”

Noe looked down, and muttered something unflattering-sounding at himself.

“Swear  to me— on your dead folk — you won’t play a fool. I’ll give you the report.”

“I swear on Devi Kalidas and Timothy Dawns,” Parvati said, surprised, “I am no one’s fool.”

Noe nodded, and left; a minute later, he returned, and gave her a black folder. He ruffled her hair.

“Take care,” he said heavily. “And begon.”