The Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Undead Lifestyle

Danny closed The Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Undead Lifestyle and tossed it onto the coffee table, where it landed next to a half-eaten gas station burrito and three empty Monster Energy cans. The book had been zero help. Chapter seven promised "Practical Tips for Maintaining Human Relationships," but it was mostly Victorian-era advice about not drinking your servants and shit about finding discreet donors at opium dens.

"Opium dens," Danny muttered to his empty apartment. "Yeah, let me just head down to the Tucson opium den. It's right next to the fucking Target."

His phone buzzed. Maria.

Still coming over? Or are you being weird again

Danny stared at the text. Was he being weird? Yes. Obviously yes. He'd been a vampire for eight months and still couldn't figure out how to tell his girlfriend that he now technically subsisted on a carefully balanced diet of blood bank donations and—when times got tight—the occasional ethically-sourced deer from his buddy Carlos who worked at the wildlife center.

The thing was, he loved Maria. Like, genuinely loved her—not in the sparkly doomed romance way, but in the "she makes fun of my cargo shorts and lets me talk about comic books for forty minutes" way. She was getting her master's in social work. She made incredible chilaquiles. She had this laugh that started quiet and then just fucking went, loud and unself-conscious, and every time Danny heard it he thought oh right, this is why being alive—or whatever I am now—is worth it.

But he'd been dodging her for two weeks because every time she got close, he became hyperaware that he could hear her heartbeat like a bass drum, could smell the blood moving under her skin, and his teeth started doing that thing where they got all long and pointy without his permission.

not being weird, he texted back. just working late at the center

This was technically true. Danny did work late at the Tucson Vampire Outreach Center, a converted auto body shop on the east side where newly-turned vampires could access resources, attend support groups, and learn how to not accidentally murder people during what was, universally, a really shitty time in everyone's afterlife.

bullshit, Maria responded. you've worked late every day this month. what's going on? are you seeing someone else?

Danny's dead heart would have stopped if it wasn't already, you know, stopped.

no no no god no, he typed frantically. i swear. I'm just dealing with some... health stuff

what health stuff

How do you tell someone you've been murdered by a vampire and subsequently turned into a creature of the night when you're still making monthly payments on a 2015 Honda Civic and your biggest concern last week was whether your roommate would notice you'd been secretly living off his oat milk?

Danny looked at the book again. Page sixty-three had a section called "The Disclosure Dilemma" that basically said: tell them or don't, but either way you're fucked, buddy. Good luck!

His phone rang. Maria. Fuck.

"Hey," he answered, trying to sound normal and probably sounding like he was being held hostage.

"I'm coming over," Maria said. Not asking. Telling.

"It's like eleven PM—"

"Danny, I can hear the weird in your voice. I'm already in my car."

She hung up.

Danny looked around his apartment—the blackout curtains covering every window, the mini-fridge full of blood bags labeled with Carmen's handwriting ("Danny's supply - Type O"), the box of fangs he'd accidentally shed last week because apparently vampire teeth worked like baby teeth except way more disturbing.

He had maybe fifteen minutes.

He shoved the blood bags into the vegetable crisper and threw a bag of spinach on top, tossed the box of fangs into the bathroom cabinet behind his shaving cream, and yanked down a few of the blackout curtains to make the apartment look less like a vampire lair and more like a regular depressed person's cave.

The knock came twelve minutes later. Danny opened the door.

Maria stood there in her university hoodie and leggings, her hair up in a scrunchie, looking tired and beautiful and very, very done with his shit.

"We need to talk," she said.

"Yeah," Danny said. "We really do."

She walked in, sat on his ratty couch, and folded her arms. "So. What's going on? And don't say 'nothing,' because I know nothing. I've met nothing. You're being something."

Danny sat down next to her, carefully maintaining three feet of distance. His teeth were already tingling.

"Okay," he said. "This is going to sound insane."

"Try me."

"I'm a vampire."

Maria blinked. "What?"

"A vampire. The bloodsucking kind. I got attacked eight months ago behind the Circle K on Grant, and now I'm undead, and I work at a support center for other vampires, and I've been avoiding you because I didn't know how to tell you without sounding completely batshit, and also because sometimes when you're near me I can hear your pulse and I get these... feelings that are super inappropriate for our relationship and also potentially fatal for you."

He said it all in one breath—unnecessary, since he didn't technically need to breathe, but habits die hard.

Maria stared at him. Then she stood up.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

"What? No—"

"Danny, I drove over here at eleven PM because I thought—" She stopped, her voice cracking. "I thought you were sick. Or depressed. Or that you'd met someone else and didn't know how to tell me. And you're going to sit there and tell me you're a vampire?"

"I know how it sounds—"

"Do you?" Maria's eyes were bright, angry. "Because it sounds like you think I'm an idiot. Or like you're making fun of me for caring about you."

"I'm not—Maria, I swear, I'm telling the truth—"

"Stop." She grabbed her keys off the coffee table. "I don't know what's actually going on with you, but I can't do this. I can't be with someone who won't just talk to me."

"Wait." Danny stood, panic flooding through him. "Wait, please. I can prove it."

"Prove it?" Maria laughed, but it wasn't her real laugh. It was bitter and small. "How? Are you going to turn into a bat?"

"Just—give me one second. Please."

Something in his voice must have reached her, because she stopped at the door. Turned around. Her arms were crossed, her jaw set.

"One second," she said. "Then I'm leaving."

Danny opened his mouth. Let his teeth extend—really extend, the full predator set, longer than any human canines had a right to be. He watched Maria's face change, watched her take an involuntary step back.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered.

Then he moved. Just a quick demonstration—behind her, then across the room, then back to where he'd been standing, fast enough that it looked like teleportation, fast enough that the human eye couldn't quite track it.

Maria's back hit the door. Her hand went to her throat—instinctive, protective.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Danny said quickly, keeping his distance. His teeth retracted, his body still. "I would never hurt you. That's why I've been avoiding you. I was scared I couldn't control it, but I can. I've been working with people at the center, and I'm safe, I promise I'm safe—"

"Stop talking." Maria's voice was faint. She slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest. "Just... stop talking for a second."

Danny stopped talking.

The silence stretched out. Outside, someone's car alarm kept wailing. Maria just sat there, breathing hard, staring at nothing.

Finally, she looked up at him. "How do you... what do you eat?"

"Blood," Danny said quietly. "But not—I don't hunt people or anything. There's a network. Blood banks, expired donations. The support center helps coordinate it."

He opened the fridge. Pulled out the vegetable crisper. The blood bags sat there under the spinach, clinical and impossible to explain away.

Maria got up slowly, came over, looked inside. She reached out, almost touched one, then pulled her hand back.

"Eight months," she said, not looking at him. "You've been dealing with this for eight months and you didn't tell me."

"I didn't know how—"

"We've been together for two years, Danny. Two years." Her voice cracked. "Did you think I wouldn't want to help you? That I'd just leave?"

"I don't know!" Danny said. "I didn't know what to think! I'm a fucking vampire, Maria. I'm dead. I drink blood. How do you tell someone that? How do you ask someone to stay when you're literally a monster?"

"You're not a monster." Maria said it automatically, then stopped. "I mean—fuck. I don't know what you are. I don't..." She pressed her palms against her eyes. "I need a minute. I need to think."

She sat back down on the couch. Danny closed the fridge and stayed where he was, giving her space.

After a long moment, Maria said, "This support center. Tell me about it."

"The Tucson Vampire Outreach Center. It's on the east side. They help with resources, support groups, therapy... just trying to help people not accidentally murder someone while they figure their shit out."

"There are other vampires."

"Yeah. A lot of them, actually. It's more common than people think."

"And you're seeing someone? A therapist?"

"Yeah. Dr. Martinez. She's been... she's been really helpful."

Maria nodded slowly, processing. "And you're in control. You're not going to—"

"No," Danny said firmly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I wouldn't be here if I thought I was a danger to you. I've been working on this for months. I'm safe."

"Okay." Maria took a shaky breath. "Okay."

She looked up at him, and Danny saw her trying—really trying—to reconcile the person she knew with what she'd just learned. Trying to make the pieces fit.

"So," she finally said. "That's why you've been weird."

"Yeah."

"And you thought... what? That I'd run away screaming?"

"I mean, wouldn't you?"

Maria looked at him—really looked at him—and Danny felt naked in a way that had nothing to do with clothes and everything to do with being truly seen by someone who mattered.

"Danny," she said quietly. "I'm getting my MSW specifically to work with marginalized populations. Last semester I did a whole research project on accessible healthcare for sex workers. You think I'm going to freak out because my boyfriend is going through a life transition that happens to involve fangs?"

"I'm technically dead," Danny pointed out.

"And I'm technically exhausted from grad school," Maria said. "We've all got shit."

She moved closer. Danny tensed.

"So what does this mean?" Maria asked. "For us, I mean. Do we just... keep dating? Do I need to start sleeping during the day? Are there rules?"

"I don't know," Danny admitted. "I've never done this before. The telling-my-girlfriend-I'm-a-vampire part. It's not exactly covered in the handbook."

"There's a handbook?"

"There's a terrible handbook. It's mostly useless."

Maria almost smiled. Almost. "Well. We'll figure it out then."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She paused. "Although I have questions. So many questions. Starting with: do you still eat regular food, or am I going to watch you pretend to enjoy my chilaquiles while secretly gagging?"

Danny laughed, and it felt like the first real breath he'd taken in months, even though breathing was now optional.

"I can still eat regular food," he said. "Your chilaquiles are still the best thing I've ever tasted. That hasn't changed."

"Good," Maria said. She kissed him—just a quick press of lips that somehow contained everything: acceptance, curiosity, that same stubborn commitment she brought to grad school and social justice and badly parallel parking her car.

Later, after she'd gone home, Danny sat back down on his couch. The book was still there on the coffee table where he'd left it, next to the burrito and the Monster cans. He picked it up and opened it again, flipping past the useless chapters about Victorian etiquette and historical disclosure failures.

In the back, there was a section he hadn't read yet: "Chapter Twelve: When Someone Knows."

So you've decided to tell someone. Or maybe you already have, and you're reading this in a panic, wondering if you've just made the biggest mistake of your undead life. Either way, here's what matters: disclosure is terrifying because it's a gamble on grace. You're betting that someone will look at what you are—really look—and choose to stay anyway.

Most vampires never take that bet. They spend eternity isolated, convinced that their nature makes them unlovable. It's safer that way. Lonelier, but safer.

If someone stayed, remember this moment. Whatever happens next—and a lot will happen, because immortality is long and messy and frequently awkward—remember that someone looked at what you are and chose connection over comfort.

That's not magic. That's just grace.

And grace, unlike us, doesn't give a shit about sunrise.

Danny closed the book. He'd call Carmen tomorrow, tell her it actually had something useful in it after all. Maybe they'd stock it at the center. Maybe it would help somebody else fumbling through their first year of fangs and fear.

For now, though, he sat in his apartment thinking about Maria's laugh and her chilaquiles and the way she'd said "we'll figure it out" like it was the simplest thing in the world.

And he thought: yeah. Maybe we will.

Outside, Tucson hummed its late-night soundtrack of distant sirens and neighbor arguments and someone's car alarm that had been going off for the past three hours.

He opened his phone and texted Maria: thank you for not running

She responded immediately: where would i run? its midnight and i have homework

Then: also i love you dumbass

Danny smiled, his fangs safely retracted, his dead heart doing whatever passed for singing in the chest of something undead, and typed back: love you too

He set the book on his nightstand before going to bed, spine up, title visible. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Undead Lifestyle.

Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe they both were. But tomorrow night Maria was coming over again, and they were going to watch The Fast and the Furious and eat takeout and talk about grad school and vampirism and how to navigate a relationship when one person's idea of meal prep involved a cooler and the other person's involved a Crock-Pot.

And that felt like the opposite of idiotic. That felt like the smartest thing Danny had done since dying.

He closed his eyes—another unnecessary habit—and let Tucson's night sounds carry him into that weird half-rest state Dr. Martinez called 'restorative stillness' and Danny called 'lying very still and thinking about stuff.' Tomorrow the sun would come up, and Danny wouldn't see it. But Maria would. And she'd tell him about it later, and somehow, that was enough.