august 29th, 2019, 11:15 a.m.

Julien's call should have made Iman feel better about this project, but all it did, in fact, was make her more antsy. She sat in the library now—high, sweeping ceilings, support beams made of dark, expensive wood, brimming bookshelves that made Iman feel insignificant and important at the same time—a history database staring back at her from its screen. Beck was next to her, humming to himself as he hacked away at likely the fiftieth English paper in his academic career. "It's about the notable nuances between writers of the Transcendental era," he'd told her earlier, happily snapping a piece of sugary gum that made his breath smell like bubble gum. "You know. Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, William Cullen Bryant. It was really cool to have three names back then."

Now, however, Beck was fairly quiet, the upward tilt to his mouth a working contrast to his furrowed brow. There was no shaking him when he was like this; he was in another world, this Beck, and there was no retrieving him.

With a sigh, Iman trained her eyes back to her own screen. She typed in Morales, narrowed the years to 1809 (the year Julien was born) through 1900. When that came up too broad, she added Julien's mother's name to the end of it: Morales Ruiz. She pored over the results, however few there were. A few censuses, mostly written in Spanish, of which Iman could understand very little. A dated newspaper article, also in Spanish, about new construction in Mexico City. One item in particular, however, caught her wandering eye.

It was a death certificate—not Julien's, if he even had one. The name on it was Jacinto Manuel Morales Ruiz, died February 20th, 1836, age 27, el gripe.

"The flu," said Beck, making Iman jump.

She looked up at him, stunned. "What?"

He pointed to the scribbled handwriting beside what Iman assumed was cause of death. "The flu," he repeated. "That's what gripe means." He paused in realization. "Shit. That's not Julien, is it?"

Iman shook her head, reading over the certificate again. "No, but it might be a relative of his."

"Why don't you ask him about it?" asked Beck, nudging his computer shut with his elbow. His breath was still artificially sweet, his glasses pushed to the very tip of his nose.

"He wouldn't know," Iman said, and when she saw a dismal surprise flicker across Beck's face, his brown eyes going wide, she realized she had never told Beck this part of Julien's story. "He doesn't remember anything from before he was a vampire, Beck. That's the part we're trying to fill in."

"No memory of his family?" Beck asked, and Iman shook her head. "Nothing at all?"

"Nothing," she said. "It's like...it was wiped, or something. His brain."

"Jesus," said Beck, leaning back in his seat, his chin tilted up. "That's awful. I feel bad for the guy."

"As one should," said Iman, and paused a breath. With a new conviction, she stood, packing up her stuff. "I'll meet you back at my apartment, okay? I need to go talk to Jules."

She turned to go, her eyes on the two glass doors at the front of the library, but Beck's hand around her wrist drew her to a stop again. His skin was warm, alive, against hers; Iman's heart started to speed, as it had the first time he touched her, as it had the first time they kissed.

She forgot what it felt like sometimes—to just be human. Beck was the very best reminder.

"Immy," Beck said, looking at her through his eyelashes, something in his expression dark and calculating, "what are you planning?"

She swallowed. Was it that obvious? "I told him I would help, Beck," she said, "so that is what I'm going to do."

She dipped, kissing him, sinking for a moment. When she rose again her mind was muddled but her goal was clear. "I'll see you at home."

Outside the library, she thumbed in Julien's number. He picked up on the second ring. "Yes?"

"What are you doing right now?"

"Right now?" A pause. "Well—fabric shopping."

"Fabric shopping?" Iman repeated, dumbfounded. "Why the hell are you fabric shopping?"

"There's a really ugly chair in the townhouse that needs to be reupholstered, and hell if I'm paying someone else to do it," Julien said. His voice was steadier than it had been in days; Iman was relieved to hear him sounding like himself again. "Do you need something, amor?"

"Look—where is this place? I'm coming to see you."

"Okay...it's Fabric Depot, exit 23B off the interstate. There's a giant statue of a googly-eyed roll of paper in front of it, so it's kind of impossible to miss."

By then, Iman was already in her car. "I'll be there soon. Don't move an inch."

Julien was right. The creepy statue towering in the Fabric Depot's parking lot did in fact make it impossible to miss. When Iman entered, she got the peculiar feeling of having stumbled through a wardrobe to another world. Massive rolls of fabric were stacked on top of each other, creating a maze of color and cloth, the air smelling of glue and leather and fresh linen. A slow alt song Iman didn't recognize played over the loudspeaker, interrupted now and then by the loud shink of the fabric cutter coming down on a piece of cloth. She walked around, searching for Julien, her shoes scuffing along grayish, lacquered concrete. He certainly didn't fit the demographic that made up the bulk of the shoppers; most of them were white, middle-aged women, wearing marathon T-shirts or swirling paisley scarves or ball caps that said things like Mom Squad.

The aisles were color-coded; Iman finally found Julien waltzing around in the black and white section, his head tilted back and a hand poised at his chin. Looking at him from a distance, she realized suddenly how long his hair had gotten, the dark strands brushing his upper back as he studied something on the top shelf. She searched for any signs of illness, of unrest, but he seemed in fine, operating order: standing upright, his clothes unwrinkled, his skin a healthy pink.

She was so, so relieved. "Jules!"

He turned, a smile blooming on his face the second he saw her. "Oh, Iman. You really rushed over here, didn't you?"

She adjusted the strap of her purse, standing beside him as they studied the wall of fabric in front of them. "I had to talk to you."

The smile on Julien's face dipped, if only a little. He turned, facing her, one hand brushing a roll of velvet cow print. Why such a fabric existed, Iman did not know, but she didn't have time to wonder much about it. "Is it about..."

"Does the name Jacinto mean anything to you?"

Something flickered across his face; Iman almost thought it was pain. Not because he remembered, she realized then, but because he couldn't. "I...it should, shouldn't it? It should mean something, but that's all I know."

Who was this Jacinto who died the same year Julien was turned? A brother, a cousin, maybe even just a friend? Who was he, and who was he to Julien?

Iman would find out.

Iman had to find out.

One of the aforementioned white women brushed past them, pushing a full cart. The two of them squeezed themselves close to the edge of the aisle to let her pass. "I have a date, Julien," Iman confessed. "I have the date when this Jacinto person died. You have to let me go."

Julien's brows drew towards each other, his jaw working. "Oh—Iman, I don't know if that's a good idea...I mean, can you even do that? Travel willingly?"

Iman hesitated. She had only done it once before, senior year of high school. She'd failed a test (biology was always awful for her; if any science, physics was much more her speed) so badly she risked flunking the class. She had spent days trying to get back to that day, to change the grade or tell herself to study more or anything, and after a week, she had done it.

It had felt strange, unholy, unreal, and afterwards she had felt so guilty she couldn't eat for two days. But she had done it.

"I have once before," said Iman, frowning at the floor, "and I can do it again, if you'll let me."

Julien hesitated again, silence washing between them. Then, turning and continuing his perusal of the various fabrics—he stopped to stare at a houndstooth design, head inclined thoughtfully—he asked, "What is the date?"

It was not a yes, yet, but at least it wasn't an immediate no. "February 20th, 1836."

She saw his shoulders tense, but he kept walking. "That's the year I was turned."

"I know," said Iman with a sigh. "That's why I have to go, you know?"

For another long moment, Julien was quiet, turning the houndstooth cloth over and over again in his hands, his face screwed in such a way that suggested less interest in the cloth and more, really, in what Iman had to say.

Soon, the silence was enough to drive her mad. "Jules—"

"I can't talk you out of it, can I?" he said, tossing her a side glance, his hair in his eyes.

She blinked, trying to understand the mirth in his brown-black eyes, the color of obsidian in the shadow, of sunlit oak in the light. "No, you totally can talk me out of it, Jules. That's why I'm here."

He worried at the edge of the cloth with his thumb and index finger, checking for frays. Then, decidedly, he dropped his hand. "You know what? I think I need a job. I can't spend all my days reupholstering furniture and making sure Ringo doesn't get stuck under the couch."

"Wait—what?"

Julien flagged down the nearest worker—a lanky teenager in a red vest—and rattled off a bunch of numbers, how many feet he needed and in what dimensions. She shouldn't have been, but Iman was stunned at his preciseness; had he really spent this much time thinking about this stupid chair? She was trying to guess which chair he was talking about—and why he would want to cover it in something as busy as houndstooth print—but she had no idea.

Julien started in the direction of the cutting station, following after the lanky teenager. "Im?" he said, looking at her over his shoulder. "Everything okay?"

"I just—" She hesitated. "You're really not going to say no?"

Julien bit his lip, glancing behind him at the young employee slowly getting farther and farther away. His shoes squeaking against the concrete as he did, Julien pivoted sharply, walking back to Iman and taking her hand in his. His skin was cold, like a kiss of snow against her skin. It was everything Beck's embrace was not: frigid, lifeless—yet it was somehow inviting just the same.

"You are smart, Iman," he said, lending her a gentle smile, so that the smallest of creases formed at the corner of his eyes. "Much smarter than I will ever be. And besides, you asked me to trust you; I told you I'd trust you. I don't go back on my word."

Something in his eyes hardened with a new fervor, and Iman didn't know why it made her throat tighten.

"Tonight," she said then, nodding her head. She was afraid. She was so, so afraid, but it was the kind of fear that disguises itself as courage. "I'm going tonight, then."

Julien's grin loosened, so that it was almost a frown. "In the mean time," he said, "do you want to help with this stupid chair?"

Iman chuckled, playfully shoving him as they turned to make their way towards the cutting station. A different alt song hummed in the air; she tapped her fingers upon her thigh, tuning her rhythm to the beat. "You know," she said. "I'll think I'll leave that one to you and Ringo. Oh—and the job thing? Are you serious about that?"

Julien shot her a look, feigning sternness. "I am Julien Morales, amor," he said. "I am always serious about everything."

Iman sighed.

The way he said it, it was not at all an answer to her question.