My Roommate Is a Vampire(8)

Besides the pale green of the candelabras, the only other color to be found in the living room was in the large, garish, floral Oriental rug covering most of the floor; the bright red, glowing eyes of a deeply creepy stuffed wolf’s head hanging over the mantel; and the deep-red velvet drapes hanging on either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I shivered, and not just because the room was freezing.

In short, the living room was confirmation of something I’d known for years: people with money often had terrible taste.

“So. You like dark rooms, huh?” I asked. It was maybe the most ridiculously obvious thing I could possibly have said—but was also the least offensive thing I could think of. I stared at the carpet as I waited for him to reply, trying to decide if the flowers I stood on were supposed to be peonies.

A long pause. “I . . . prefer dimly lit places, yes.”

“I bet you get a lot of light in here during the day, though.” I pointed to the windows lining the room’s eastern wall. “You must get a fabulous view of the lake.”

He shrugged. “Probably.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You don’t know?”

“Given our proximity to the lake and the size of these windows, I can infer that one can see the lake quite well from here should one wish to do so.” He fidgeted with a large golden ring on his pinky finger; it had a blood-red stone as big as my thumbnail in its center. “I keep the curtains drawn, however, while the sun is up.”

Before I could ask why he’d waste a view like that by never looking at it, he added, “Should you decide to move in, you may open the curtains whenever you wish to see the lake.”

I was just about to tell him that that was exactly what I would do if I moved in when my phone vibrated from inside the front pocket of my jeans.

“Um,” I said awkwardly, fishing it out. “Hold on a second.”

Crap. It was Sam.

In the shock of realizing that Frederick was hot, I’d forgotten to let him know I wasn’t being murdered.

    Cassie? You okay?

I’m trying not to freak out.

Please text me right away so I don’t start worrying that you’ve been chopped up and put into freezer bags.

I’m fine

Just got caught up in the apartment tour

Sorry

Everything’s fine

Frederick’s not a murderer, then?

If so he hasn’t tried killing me yet

But no I don’t think he’s a murderer

I think he might just be REALLY weird

I’ll text you when I leave



I sent Sam a pink heart emoji as a peace offering in case he was mad.

“Sorry about that,” I said awkwardly, stuffing my phone back into my jeans pocket. “My friend drove me over. He just wanted to check in and make sure everything was okay.”

Frederick smiled at that—a crooked, lopsided sort of smile that made me forget that he was too weird and snobby to find attractive.

“That is smart of your friend,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “You and I hadn’t been properly introduced yet when we agreed to meet. Now, Miss Greenberg—shall we begin the tour?”

But hearing from Sam reminded me that while I did want to get a good look at this place, there was something important I needed answered first.

“Actually, before we do that, can I ask you a question?”

At that, Frederick froze. He took a small step away from me, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his gray slacks.

It was another long moment before he answered me.

“Yes, Miss Greenberg.” He clenched his jaw, his posture suddenly rigid. He looked like he was gathering courage to face an unpleasant task. “You may ask whatever you like.”

I squared my shoulders. “Okay. So, this might be stupid of me to ask, since I’m about to argue against my own best interest here. But my curiosity is literally killing me. Why are you only asking for two hundred per month?”

He took a small step back, blinking at me in what looked like genuine confusion. Whatever he’d been expecting me to ask, it wasn’t that.

“I—I beg your pardon?”

“I know what rent in a place like this should be,” I continued. “You’re only asking for, like—a fraction of it.”

A pause. “I am?”

I stared at him. “Yes. Of course you are.” I gestured vaguely to our surroundings—to the brass wall sconces and the bookshelves, to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the intricate Oriental rug beneath our feet. “This place is amazing. And the location? Insane.”

“I am . . . aware of its attributes,” Frederick said, sounding dazed.

“Okay then,” I said. “So, what’s the deal? The price you’re asking will make everyone who sees the ad think there’s something wrong with your apartment.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” I said. “I almost didn’t come because of it.”

“Oh no,” he groaned. “What would have been a more appropriate price?”

I couldn’t believe this. How could someone wealthy enough to live here be this clueless about the value of what he had?

“I mean . . .” I trailed off, trying to decide whether he was messing with me. The earnest, slightly panicked look in his eyes told me he was not. Which made no sense at all. But on the off chance he really didn’t know that two hundred dollars a month was a ridiculous price for this room, I wasn’t about to negotiate against my best interest more than I already had by giving him an exact number.