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Baz
Rapid healing is the one benefit I get from being a vampire. From paper cuts to birdshot in the chest, my body stitches itself back up like new and carries on as though nothing happened. I still limp from whatever the numpties did when they kidnapped me, so there must be some unknown limitation to the process. I don’t think I could regrow a liver or lung if needed, for example. It’s times like these when I really wish there was proper literature about vampires that wasn’t written by repressed perverts (even if I am a repressed pervert myself).
Ironically, I don’t think the healing extends to teeth. At least not my human teeth. It would explain the agony I’m in now.
“What do you mean, you’ve never been to the dentist?” I hear Bunce chastise from the speaker of Simon’s mobile.
“I didn’t think my enunciation and diction deteriorated that much since graduation,” I snap back, then wince as another bolt of pain shoots through my jaw and the back of my mouth. “Didn’t I make myself clear?”
“The sarcasm is hardly necessary.”
“I didn’t go to the dentist until I was eighteen,” Simon chimes in.
“You were in a much different situation, Simon. You were in care, while Baz could afford to go to a dentist twice a year. And go private, I might add.”
“We can discuss the socioeconomic divide that plagued our respective childhoods at a later—OW!” Tears spring to my eyes along with more pain. I hastily blink them away.
“’S kinda obvious to me why he didn’t go,” Simon says. And he’s right. For as smart as Bunce is, it seems she hasn’t connected the dots. Take a condition that would make any Normal dentist faint dead away, add a family who’s loath to acknowledge the existence of said condition, and that equals roughly two decades of dental neglect. Oh, and add in Simon’s grandmother and her endless stream of delectable baked goods.
This isn’t Lady Ruth’s fault, though. That woman is a saint. It’s my fault for being unable to occasionally decline her hospitality for my own sake.
“I’ll text Shepard. He’s out at the shops now, but he can probably stop by the pub to see if anyone there has any leads on vampire-friendly dentists.” Bunce pauses. “Wait, Baz, isn’t your aunt dating that vampire? Nico? Maybe he’d know someone.”
“Fiona and I aren’t speaking at the moment, and I don’t have his number,” I grit out through the pain. Not entirely accurate: last week, I got a text from an unknown number that simply read hey kid, followed by an utterly incomprehensible string of emojis, capped off with a GIF of a cartoon Nosferatu grinning. It could have only been Nico. If he has some idea of mediating a grand reconciliation between me and Fiona, he can keep dreaming. I saved the number as UNDEAD TOM PETTY in my phone, though, just in case.
“Just a thought. I’ll have Shepard reach out once he knows something.”
Simon says goodbye to Bunce, hangs up, and tucks his mobile back into his hoodie pocket with a sigh. “He’ll find someone,” he says, mostly to himself. “Shep’s got a knack for finding people.”
I nod. Talking is a Herculean effort right now.
“You want more paracetamol? Some ice?”
I shake my head.
“All right. We’ll watch one of your cozy grandma murder mystery shows so you don’t shout at the telly.” Simon grabs the remote. “And don’t go off about how they’re not grandma shows, because they are. But that’s okay.”
I roll my eyes and lie my head in his lap, turned on the side that hurts the least. Within a few minutes, I find my eyes drifting closed as the Midsomer Murders theme plays.
About an hour later, I feel a vibration at the back of my skull. Simon’s mobile. Before I can turn over and let him know, Simon’s reaching a hand into his pocket and reading the screen.
“Oh wow, you’ve got choices,” Simon mutters as he scrolls. “Who knew there were this many magical dentists in London?”
“They’re not necessarily magicians,” I say. “Just people who are willing to look at creatures.”
Simon frowns. He doesn’t like when I refer to myself as a creature, even if it is the truth. “Do you want to pick one out? I haven’t a clue how to choose.”
“Just pick whoever has the name you like most.” I wince again. “Or whoever has the earliest appointment. I don’t think I can take much more of this.”
Simon
Three days later, and I’m sitting in a tiny waiting room next to Baz, watching him flip through the Daily Mail with a disgusted look on his face. Dr. Mond’s office isn’t too far from Hackney Wick, in a neighborhood populated almost entirely with magical beings. Normals walk among them, shopping and chatting, but years of practice (and getting jumped by goblins) have me on the lookout for unusually colored eyes or heavy footsteps. I’m pretty sure we passed a centaur on our way in, their hindquarters hidden in a glamour and their front hooves shoved into combat boots.
There’s a grinning dog statue in the corner opposite from us clutching a toothbrush in one paw, with a little sign reminding people to brush their teeth twice a day. All manner of newspapers and tabloids are fanned across the coffee tables in the middle of the room. A mum and her kid are huddled around a table lamp that seems to be filled with plastic fast-food toys in the base. The kid is making a real game of pointing out every toy they can identify. It’s the most exciting thing going on in this room.
A door next to the reception desk opens, and someone in bright green scrubs and a face mask leans out. “Basilton?”
Baz drops the Daily Mail issue and stands. I follow him through the door and into an exam room with a colorful mobile dangling from the ceiling.
“Good to meet you both. I’m Juno, Dr. Mond’s hygienist.” Juno gestures to where we can hang up our coats. “According to your chart, it looks like this is your first visit with us, Basilton.”
“It is. Please, call me Baz,” he says, and winces again like he has been for the past two weeks.
“Looks like you’re in quite a bit of pain. Have a seat and we’ll take a look at what’s going on.”
Baz gets into the exam chair, leans back, and opens wide while Juno sticks a small bent mirror in his mouth. He’s tense, his shoulders curling in toward his chest. Juno turns to the counter, opens a drawer, and pulls out a curved piece of clear, hard plastic.
“While I look at your lower teeth, I’ll need you to wear this guard on your upper teeth. If it gets uncomfortable, you can spit it out. Understand?”
“Um,” Baz hesitates. “I don’t think that will…” he rolls his hand, “…stop what happens.”
Juno gives him an eye-smile above her mask. “You’re in safe company, Baz. No need for euphemisms. You have fangs, correct?”
Baz sits up with a jerk.
“I saw the gaps in your maxillary gums. Not to worry. We have patients with all kinds of dental needs. Besides, the guard is less about preventing your fangs from descending and more about giving me a warning to move my hand.”
Baz looks down at the guard warily before sliding it into his mouth and leaning back in the chair again. Juno starts peering around with her mirror, and then after a minute, carefully slides the guard out to look at the rest of Baz’s teeth.
“Hmm,” she says. “It appears your wisdom teeth in the lower back are growing in crooked. Very common. But we want to address this issue before it gets worse, especially since you are in so much pain now, Baz. I’ll get Dr. Mond to come in and have a look before we proceed with the rest of your cleaning.”
Juno presses a button pinned to the pocket of her scrub shirt. Less than a minute later, the door opens and a woman with brown-tinted glasses comes in, leaning on a metallic cane.
“Good afternoon, all. Looks like we have a new patient today…Baz, is it?” Dr. Mond says, glancing at the clipboard on the counter. “Wonderful.” She smiles widely, her teeth unusually long and pointed. Not just the ones under her eyes, either.
Juno fills Dr. Mond in on her observations, and Dr. Mond leans over and has a look in Baz’s mouth for herself using the same bent mirror. When she leans into the light, I can see her irises are bright gold behind her glasses.
“Push that stool over to me, would you, please?” she asks. Juno slides a rolling stool over, and Dr. Mond sits down with a heavy exhale, still leaning on her cane.
“Well, then. I’m quite certain that the source of your pain is your wisdom teeth stubbornly refusing to come through all the way. I suspect your enhanced healing capacity is partly at fault. Any time a wisdom tooth punctures your gum, the wound heals so rapidly that any progress is rendered moot. Then the tooth regroups and attempts to break through a little more. Your lower teeth have had some success, but your uppers can’t be far behind.” Dr. Mond gives Baz a half-grin. “Your body is effectively at war with itself. I know a bit about how that feels.”
Baz winces and sits up on his elbows. “Is there anything you can do?” he says thickly through the guard.
“Surgical extraction. Even if your teeth did somehow make it on the other side of your gums, they’ll impact your jaw and cause more pain in the long run. Not to worry. I’d be the one handling your surgery, and I have over twenty years of experience.”
Baz looks like he’d rather swallow his own brain than have someone do oral surgery. Can’t say I blame him. Dr. Mond takes another look inside his mouth, this time with a mirror and a curved pick.
“No sign of cavities. Very good,” she murmurs. “No chipped or broken teeth. Signs of bruxism, possibly from attempts to self-soothe the wisdom tooth pain. To be expected. Juno, please bring Baz back for bitewing X-rays prior to finishing your cleaning.”
“Yes, Dr. Mond.”
“Baz, I’ll be sure you leave with some pamphlets on oral surgery, including what to expect as a vampire.” Dr. Mond pats Baz’s hand before she rises from her stool and grabs her cane. “I hope we meet again soon.”
She slowly walks out. Juno starts talking Baz through the X-rays, but the whole time, he’s staring at me with panic in his eyes.
Baz
It takes Simon a week to convince me to go back to Dr. Mond. I know the surgery has to be done – the only way out is through and all that – but knowing and believing are two entirely different things.
Besides, it’s not really the surgery itself that churns my stomach. When I imagine the anesthesia pulling me under, I feel like I’m stuffed inside that damn coffin again while numpties mill around outside. Utterly incapable of handling what’s happening to my body. That’s where trust comes in, I suppose. A dentist’s office is safe, not like the underside of some bridge. She might be a stranger, but Dr. Mond is calming and deliberate, not oafish. And Simon will be there on the other side, waiting for me to wake up.
He holds my hand while Shepard drives to the office, while I sign in and we wait, and while I huff into the plastic face mask and count backward from one hundred. The room fades into soft darkness. Just like I did two summers ago, I dream of blue eyes and bronze curls.
I don’t remember coming around afterward. Simon tells me later that I was flopping around ungracefully in the wheelchair, barely able to sit upright. Vampires need a higher dose of anesthesia than humans, because it’s preferable not to have a vampire come to in the middle of oral surgery for obvious reasons. At some point on the ride home, I nod off again on Simon’s shoulder.
When I wake up next time, I blink and see the dull red numbers of my alarm clock beam 6:35 at me. My mouth is throbbing and wooly all at once. A moment later, Simon pushes his way into the room, carrying a massive mug that says TAKE IT EASY, BUT TAKE IT on the side.
“Dr. Mond said I should just let you sleep as much as you want.” Simon holds up the mug in both hands. “Brought you some blood. I know you fed last night, but I went and got some fresh stuff from the butcher for you just now since you probably won’t be up to hunting for a while.”
I love him. I wish I could tell him so around the wads of gauze packed into my mouth, but all I can manage is a squint that I hope looks mostly like a content cat.
“’S cold, unfortunately. No hot drinks for at least a week, remember? I hope it still goes down all right.” He sets the mug down on my nightstand and kneels with one knee on the bed, peering at my face. “D’you want me to take out your gauze?”
I nod. Opening my mouth is a chore, but I do it anyway. Simon pokes inside with surprising speed and plucks all the wads out. I give his fingers a small lick when he pulls out the last piece, which makes him stick out his own tongue.
“Don’t get saucy now,” he chides. “Time to drink.”
He fishes around in his hoodie pouch and produces a straw for the mug. Then, instead of handing the mug over, he holds it in front of him like some kind of religious offering. I slide over in bed so he’s straddling my legs, and I put my hands over his while I sip slowly.
“Is this okay?” Simon whispers, almost reverent.
All I can do is nod. He got me beef blood, and its deep flavor is coating my throat and tongue. Even though it’s cold, it’s the best blood I’ve drank in months. Simon watches my every swallow with interest until the mug is nearly empty.
“I also brought this.” He produces a book from his hoodie pouch (I’m now realizing this pouch is frighteningly large and could put a kangaroo to shame). Worn red cloth spine with a lion staring at me from the top, with the words Aesop’s Fables underneath. “Lady Ruth said people like to hear familiar stories when they’re recovering from an illness. You know I’m not great with reading out loud, but—”
I reach out, grasp his forearm, and give it a squeeze. He glances down at my hand and then up at my face. I hope I’m communicating please stay as much as nonverbally possible. After a moment, Simon seems to understand and wiggles off my lap. We end up lying together with my back to his chest, the book in front of both of us.
Simon ought to give himself more credit. As he reads to me about clever crows and capricious foxes, his voice strengthens and becomes that of the finest storytellers. I won’t tell him this, not now, but I think his voice might actually be my favorite kind of magic.