Infectious, Not: To Half and Half-Not, #1

By Shanti Krishnamurty

Vampires, and hellhounds, and misfits, oh my! Isis is a typical teenager...until she's not. 

 

When her boyfriend turns out to be a vampire, and an ill-attempted bite on the neck turns her only mostly dead, Isis must navigate a world she never imagined existed...one chock full of supernatural creatures, a gargoyle priest, and a half-fairy who hates her on sight. 

 

Add to that a hellhound whose grasp of the English language is greater than any schoolteacher, and she's got her undead hands full. 

 

Determined to hunt down her erstwhile boyfriend and turn human again, Isis ultimately has to figure out if being fully alive really is all that different from being partly dead. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shanti Krishnamurty
• Release date: May 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223157793

Book preview

Chapter 1

Let’s Start At The Very Beginning

My life doesn’t make living difficult. My decomposition, however, makes the easy chores exasperating.

Laundry’s a nightmare of epic proportions. It was bad enough when I was alive. Now it’s an exercise in how not to lose body parts in the washer or the dryer.

Yup. I’m that girl. The zombie in apartment 218. Lucky me.

For the most part, my neighbors leave me alone. I don’t know if it’s my pale, sickly, skin color which throws them off, or the fact that when I wave hello, they’re never sure if my hand will fall off. Again. It’s only happened once, but once was enough. The first time it happens is hard enough to explain. I make up some technobabble about realistic prosthetics and advancements in science. I’m not sure if they buy it or not… but the old ladies in the building are starting to leave little tubes of crazy glue outside my apartment door with notes attached. ‘These are for your prosthetic. If you need screws, let us know.’ I laugh at first, but amazingly enough, the glue works.

It all starts with a boy, but then again, doesn’t it always? Tall, dark, and handsome, Andrew oozes charisma. I mean, he oozes it. When he walks by, girls’ heads swivel to watch him. But he’s supermodel gorgeous with hair that falls to just below his shoulders in those long spiral curls most girls will kill for, eyes the color of a bright blue sky, and teeth that would make dentists envious.

Wait. It’ll be so much easier if I just start at the very beginning of the whole mess.

Chapter 2

Mama Never Told Me There’d Be Days Like This

Andrew smiles at me. It’s our first date in weeks, but school just ended and we’re celebrating in Savannah, right on the water. It’s a little bit breezy, but not unusual for the coast. Let’s eat out tonight, he wheedles. It’s our last night here.

I try to hold fast to my resolve. I bought a ton of stuff; I don’t really need to spend more money.

A small frown mars his perfection. Come on, Isis. I’ll even buy it.

With what money? I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. You’re a broke college graduate, I’m a broke high school grad. Is this really the best way to spend our few remaining dollars?

He graduated as a valedictorian, which is the only reason my mom approved of him. Even though I just graduated high school and am technically an adult now. We haven’t seen each other long, only about two months, but it’s been going great. I really like him. Fine, since you’re buying. Mom’s flush, so I’m not actually concerned about the cash. My dad does the ‘Dad’ thing and sends cards, gifts, and calls occasionally, but he’s not a factor in my life. Never has been, which isn’t a big deal. You can’t miss what you’ve never known, right?

Absolutely. He takes my hand in his.

My determination fades away under his charm. A couple of hours with my boyfriend can’t hurt, right? It’s Andrew. And it’s Savannah. What could possibly go wrong?

He takes me to my favorite restaurant, and I order my all-time favorite food; chili cheeseburgers and fries slathered in bacon bits and cheese. Andrew just picks at his plain burger. But he always eats less than most anorexics. That should’ve been my first clue.

I clean the last of the fries off my plate as Andrew reaches across the table and takes my hand. His skin is cool to the touch. When we first started dating, I’d asked him if he had poor circulation, but he just shrugged his response. I figure he’s embarrassed by whatever, so I stop pushing for more of an answer. In retrospect, that was another mistake.

Are you sure you have to go straight home? His black hair falls forward and he shoves it back over his shoulders. I really need to ask you something.

Can’t you ask me here? I try to take my hand back, but Andrew refuses to give it up.

He shakes his head. No, there are too many people around. What about the pier? You like the pier.

His nervousness is so cute I give in. He hates walking on the pier, so I believe his offering means something special because something about water makes him seasick. Even on dry land. I’ve asked him about it before, and he told me some blatantly cock and bull story about a family trait.

While he pays for dinner, I stroll outside. The full moon glistens on the calm ocean water and a light fog hangs over everything. It’s an enchanted night; a night made for romance. And it was romantic. Just not for me.

The closer we get to the pier, the noisier it becomes. I’d forgotten about the back-to-school festival the city throws every year. There are couples like us, strolling hand in hand down the causeway; little kids screaming with laughter while they throw peanuts at each other, and parents trying desperately to control their out-of-control progeny. In short, it’s a madhouse.

He mouths something, but I have no idea what he’s trying to say. I motion to under the pier in a ‘Let’s go there’ gesture. No, it isn’t the smartest move in the world. But I think he loves me.

Andrew nods and together we clump through the sand, to where the sounds of the festival are muffled by the constant slap of waves against the shoreline and the thick wooden timbers creak above our heads. It’s actually really peaceful. I relax and take Andrew’s hand in mine.

I’ve only been under here once before, but Andrew moves around like he’s been born with night vision. While I stumble over clumps of unseen sand, my boyfriend steps lightly over them.

Where are you taking me? I grip his hand more firmly as he leads me deeper into the shadows that normally house the druggies and the homeless.

I want to be alone with you, he says softly.

I shiver at the velvet honey weaving through his normally rough voice.

I—I want to be alone with you, too, I reply, though it feels like a lie on my tongue. I want to go back to where the light is, even if it is the artificial light of carnival rides and open stores. But my body has other ideas. It sways toward him as he tugs me closer.

Relax. You’ll enjoy it, He whispers and starts to nuzzle at my neck.

I do enjoy it. I enjoy it a lot. My limbs feel like a marionette and my eyes slid shut. Right until the time his teeth scrape against the delicate skin covering my jugular vein.

Then I freak. I shove him as far away from me as I can. He falls and just sits on the sand, staring at me.

What’re you trying to do, kill me? I glare at as much of him as I can see, which admittedly isn’t a lot. His eyes aren’t glowing…are they? I hide behind my words. You’re such a jerk! Okay, so the word I want to use is a lot stronger than ‘jerk’, but there’s no way I can say it. My mom would kill me if she ever found out.

Wait, you don’t understand— he holds out his hand, but I ignore it. I really need to—

Whatever you need, you’re not getting it from me! I feel a warm wetness ooze over my fingers. Just a light trickle of something I suspect was blood. He bit me! "You bit me? My words echo my thoughts. What kind of freak are you, anyway?"

Andrew rises to his feet. It’s just a scrape…Isis, you don’t understand…. His voice deepens into honey once again, but I’m not buying whatever he’s trying so hard to sell. I run. The last thing I heard him say was a word my parents would wash my mouth out for even thinking. I sprint as fast as I can back to the light, and then continue all the way to my car. I scramble for the keys, clambering into the VW Bug’s front seat, and peel out of there like my butt’s on fire. I don’t even care that I’m leaving him stranded in Savannah. Let him find his own way back to Atlanta. My freaking boyfriend bit me! What the actual heck! This doesn’t even make sense. My thoughts won’t stop. I’m so outta here.

By the time I get home, I just collapse into bed, fully dressed. I don’t even brush my teeth. I know I should but…Not tonight. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

By the time I wake up the next morning, I’m really hoping everything in Savannah was nothing more than a blurry nightmare, but my fingers creep up to my neck and I feel the scab. My boyfriend actually bit me. I can’t even come up with a plausible reason why he’d do it. I totally misjudged him. What a freak.

I fumble my way out of bed, and into the all-red and chrome kitchen. It’s an odd mixture, but somehow it just works. The counters are all shiny chrome and the appliances, including my trusty coffee maker, are an almost startling bright, blood red. My mom’s got some weird taste, even for an ex-hippie. The aforementioned coffee machine burbles its usual ‘good morning’, letting me know it’s ready. Thank goodness it’s one of those programmable ones. Filling my cup to the brim, I take a sip of the inky black goodness. The coffee burns its way down my throat, tasting like liquid nastiness and reminding me of a childhood memory of making, and eating, mud pies. Gross. I shove the cup away, and it spills across the table, dripping onto the floor. Great. Perfect. Today just keeps getting better and better. I turn towards the fridge and pull the door open. Fresh fruit, cheese, vegetables, and deli meats greet me. I’d gone shopping Thursday, right before my ill-fated date with Andrew. I love the smell of fresh fruit and vegetables, so I take a deep breath in. And gag, because apparently, it’s all gone bad. Overnight. I frown. What on earth…I suppose I can do the adult thing, and clean the fridge, but I decide to go out instead. ‘Southern Comfort Eats’ usually has a decent enough breakfast, so I slither into a pair of old jeans, a t-shirt, and sandals. But today’s just not my day, because I stumble on an uneven edge of our Persian area rug, throwing out my hands to break my fall and wind up shattering the elaborate glass dragon sitting on an end table in the living room. The Chinese dragon that was my mom’s pride and joy. What else can possibly go wrong? I can’t fathom even pulling the vacuum cleaner out. Instead, in an act that almost feels like defiance, I walk around the mess and yank open the front door. A folded piece of paper floats to the doormat which reads ‘Practice Random Acts of Senseless Beauty’. Picking it up, I shove it into my pocket for later inspection. Honestly, it’s probably a flier for a church event of some sort. Thankfully, the elevator’s empty, and it doesn’t stop at any floors between mine and the ground. I walk through what’s commonly known in the south as a ‘pop-up thundershower’ to the little hole in the wall that almost always has lines around the block. Today, I get lucky. At least something’s going right.

I amble inside. The owner, Ms. Adwell, waves me to a booth. Hey, honey, how’re you? Your mama still in China?

She called when she got there, but then decided she’d better turn off her cell so she could get the ‘full’ experience or something. Mom’s been gone for two weeks, taking an in-depth tour of the Silk Road. Honestly, I have no idea when she’s coming back, other than ‘eventually’. I’m in charge of the apartment in her absence. Luckily, she’s got a full bank account, so I’ve got no worries there. Vertical watermelons and curious farmers equal some serious money. Thank goodness, because I’m not currently working. She’s since chosen to figure out how to grow square grapes, and I’m not really sure why. I think she just enjoys the challenge of it.

The old black woman humphs her reply. I don’t think she approves of teenagers being left home alone for weeks at a time. Never mind that my mom’s been treating me like an adult for years and I’ve been a primary on her bank accounts pretty much since time began. Whatcha want this morning?

The scent weaving its way toward me makes my nostrils flare and my mouth water. It’s eggs and…something else. Something unrecognizable, but utterly desirable. My stomach moans its disapproval of my morning neglect. What’s Carl cooking? Whatever it is, I’ll take that. She stares at me from across the nearly empty restaurant. Umm… honey, I’m not sure you want that.

I’m pretty sure she’s wrong. No, it’s exactly what I want. My stomach rumbles loudly, backing up my statement.

White folk don’t usually order pig brains and eggs.

That can’t possibly be what I smell. Gross. What kind of person eats brains for breakfast? Not me, that’s for sure. I order my usual, instead. Can I get French toast with powdered sugar, orange juice, and a side of cheesy scrambled eggs?

Of course, darlin’. Give Carl a few minutes to finish up Lucky Rickard’s plate, and I’ll bring it right out.

Thanks. I lean back against the worn plastic booth, glancing over at the only other regular in the diner. I have no idea why he’d order brains for breakfast, but anyone who’s survived as many heart attacks as he has can eat any darn thing he wants, I guess. I shift in my seat and the forgotten paper in my front pocket crinkles. I pull it out. It’s definitely not a church flier. And it’s addressed to me, which freaks me out completely.

Isis - Please do not be alarmed

it begins, which, of course, sets those internal alarm bells ringing.

But I understand what you’re going through. It’s difficult to discover you’re no longer the person you once were. We can help you with your adjustment period.

it continued. We? Who’s we? Or us? Maybe them? I have no idea. English gets fuzzy if you look at it too long. Ask any English major.

Come to 2089 Round Vista Terrace in Marietta if you have any questions. I’ll be waiting.

It’s unsigned, which is decidedly unhelpful. The writing is really pretty, though. All beautifully curled letters like I imagine Victorian-era women would use. Elegant. It’s weird that some stranger’s writing to me, though. Maybe it’s one of those random ‘help’ centers that dot the metro Atlanta area. I’ll check it out later. I close my eyes, tilting my head back until it rests against the cool, faded yellow vinyl.

You sure you’re okay, sweetheart?

I open my eyes as Ms. Adwell puts my breakfast down. It looks amazing and smells absolutely disgusting. My nostrils flare again, for a totally different reason than before. I very reluctantly pick up my fork. Yeah, I’m just tired.

She shakes her head. Honey, you look beyond tired. Pardon the comparison, but you look almost dead. Eat your breakfast, then go home and get some rest. You obviously need it.

I need some food, that’s what I need. Thanks, I’ll do that. I stick the fork into the cheesy eggs. The idea of eating them makes the utensil weigh about a bazillion pounds.

Just let me know if you need anything else, Ms. Adwell says.

I can’t bring myself to actually bring the fork up to my lips. The eggs just sit there, looking all cheesy and yellow. I take a deep breath in and that incredible smell from before wafts over me, overpowering the scent of the French toast, and eggs. I know what it is, but I refuse to believe I want to eat brains. I close my eyes, say a tiny prayer, and eat the forkful of cheesy goodness. And promptly throw up. All over the plate. My face flushes hot.

Oh my gosh! I’m so, so sorry! My stomach is determined to expel every single bit of food I’ve eaten since the beginning of time. At least, that’s the way it feels. I scramble out of the booth and stumble my way to the tiny bathroom in the back of the diner, Ms. Adwell hard on my heels.

Honey, are you all right? Sit down; let me get you a glass of water. She fusses over me as I collapse into a ball, pressing my face against the cool blue tile.

I moan around my dry heaves. I’m so freakin’ hungry. When Ms. Adwell opens the bathroom door, my stomach rumbles at the smell. Fine. So be it. I give in. It’s obviously not the eggs. Can–can I have a small plate of brains? I talk to the floor, pretty much hoping she can’t hear me.

Wash your face, and come back out to the table, she instructs.

My hopes are dashed.

I push myself into a sitting position, and just…stay, head hanging. I can’t believe I just asked for brains. What’s wrong with me? My hand crinkles the paper through my pants pocket. Maybe. I force myself up, rinse my mouth, splash lukewarm water from the faucet onto my face and stare into the mirror above the sink. I’m haggard. My wavy black hair still frames my face, the ends tickling at my chin, but my black eyes look haunted. I shudder and look away. I don’t need any more reminders of how sick I feel. After wiping the excess water off with a handful of paper towels, I’m sort of ready to back out and face the music…Err…brains.

A rush of saliva soaks my mouth when I see the plate left for me. All those little curls of meat mixed through the eggs. The eggs, on the other hand, don’t do much for me. I push them out of the way, take a minuscule forkful of the brains, and start coughing almost immediately.

What’s a matter? You swallow wrong? Carl ambles toward me, his white apron tied around his middle. I have no idea how he keeps it so clean while he cooks behind the counter. But then again, it’s not like I’m an expert on the whole cooking thing. Even though my fridge is full of apparently fast rotting food, I’m more of a ‘grab it and go’ girl. I done tole Adina, he continues, white folks have no business messin’ with brains ‘n eggs, but she don’ listen.

I smile up at him wanly. They taste like pork. I didn’t know they’d taste like pork.

He crinkles up his forehead. Course they taste like pork. They’re pig brains. He pauses. Were you expectin’ different?

I shrug. "They smelled amazing when they were cooking… My eyes widen as my brain processes what I just said. Raw, I murmur. Holy cow, I need ‘em raw." My stomach heaves, but there’s nothing left to throw up.

What? Carl asks, but I don’t have any answers.

Nothing. I take one last gulp of water to wash the taste of cooked meat away. I’m sorry. It’s not your cooking, I promise. I just–I need to go. Pulling a twenty out of my pocket, I slap it down on the table. Ummm…do you know where I can buy them fresh?

Carl levels a worried look at me. Bruno’s Meat Market is right up the street.

I smile weakly. Whatever’s happening to me, I hope it ends soon. The morning’s been horrible, and I really want the afternoon to be better. I walk outside, where the clear blue sky is dotted with puffy gray clouds. Barring the rain, it looks like a perfect day, but I’m too frustrated to enjoy it. All I want is to get some food and start the day sort of over. Nevertheless, I amble towards Bruno’s, because a girl has to consume something, and apparently nothing but raw brains will do.

A tiny bell chimes over the door as I push into Bruno’s. I step through the door and shiver in the cool, damp air.

Can I help you? A guy around my age stands at the counter, waiting.

I, umm… doyouhaveanybrains? I ask the question quickly, almost afraid of his reply.

He frowns. Excuse me? I didn’t understand you.

Crud. I clear my throat and try again. Do you have any brains… for eating? I mean to cook with?

Oh, sure. He smiles. What’re you looking for?

There are choices? Oh my gosh. I have no idea. What’s good?

It really depends on how you’ll be cooking them, the guy says. The basic texture is all the same, but some are sweeter than others. He takes in my blank stare. For instance, farmers usually feed their pigs apples and such, so pig brains tend to be sweeter… and cook well with, say, pork chops, while monkey brains are considered a delicacy, and are sautéed with garlic and white wine.

What about eating them raw? I ask, my voice tiny.

He shakes his head. You can’t do that. It’d make you sick.