Broken Heart 03 Because Your Vampire Said So (13 page)

I couldn’t avoid cleaning up the zombie mess. Wilson went out with me. He looked around at the zombies, who were sitting right where I left them, moaning and wiggling their arms. Some were singed, others were in pieces, and we found a number of spots that were just ash.

Being away from Gabriel was making me sick again.

“Jeez, Mom!” Wilson was holding his nose. The stench was powerful. After all, the bodies had been sitting in the sun all day. Roasting. Yuck.

Luckily, we had a few volunteers who didn’t mind picking up body parts or guiding mindless zombies around obstacles. It took half the night to get the dead into their graves (and quite honestly, I had no idea which body went where) and reburied.

I don’t think I’ll be calling up a zombie army again any time soon.

Wilson and I returned to the compound. We chatted the whole way. I told him about Nonna reanimating her own body, which freaked him out. I also listened to him tell me about why he smoked pot and we discussed how to get him the help he needed.

We entered the shelter (the blood lock worked for him). He looked at me, his nose wrinkling. “You smell like zombie.”

I laughed. “So do you!”

He went off for a shower, and I did, too. I got dressed in more borrowed clothes. I hadn’t even begun to think about where I was going to live or what I was going to do now that my home and shop were gone.

I wasn’t sure how Gabriel fit into the mix. Or what would be expected of me as the new queen of the two nations. Prophecy or not, vampires and lycanthropes weren’t exactly thrilled with the idea.

My nausea subsided as I went to my room, which was how I knew Gabriel was inside even before I opened the door.

He sat on the bed looking pensive. He stood up and offered me a crystal bottle. I took it and looked at the sparkling gold liquid inside.

“What is it?”

“Something very rare. A fairy wish.”

“You can bottle wishes?”

Gabriel nodded. “I kept it for a long time. Fairies that grant wishes are rare. I caught one once and saved my wish in that bottle.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“I’m keeping my promise,” he said. “It’s your wish now, Patricia. You can use it to break our binding.”

My heart sank to my toes. “You want to divorce me?”

“Never.” Gabriel stepped close to me. “I want you to be happy.”

“Gabriel,” I said, making my decision. Impulsive, my ass. Sometimes, you just had to go for it and hope for the best. “You know what? I don’t give a shit about the prophecy or the Ancients or anything else. I love you. I want you. Enough said. You are mine.”

“And you,” he said, his smile wide, “are very much mine.”

I wiggled the bottle. “Are you still giving me this wish?” I asked. “Free and clear? No backsies? “

“No backsies.” He looked at me. “What do you want to do with it?”

Gabriel and I walked to the field where Johnny and Nefertiti played out their gruesome deaths.

“Johnny.”

He broke free of the scene and turned his haunted eyes on me. “Patsy. Why are you here?”

“Eva looked up some information for me. Well, for you.” I tugged the paper out of my pocket. “Your daughter’s name is Rebecca. She’s married with two grown children, one in college, the other in the army. She lives in Sacramento. She’s a writer. She just finished a book called The Life and Death of Johnny Angelo: Memoirs of My Father.”

“She wrote a book about me?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Your daughter grew up knowing who you were. I think that your fiancée always loved you. One of the reasons your daughter could write that memoir is because her mother kept so much of your stuff.”

He was smiling now, too. “Thank you, Patsy. Thank you.”

“There’s more.” I looked behind him at the frozen murder scene. Nefertiti was about to spew her pretty lies. “Your fiancée died a number of years ago. On her gravestone, one epitaph reads: ‘My heart belongs to Johnny.’ “

He closed his eyes, tears sliding down his cheeks. “She took it away from me.” He turned back as hatred reclaimed his heart.

“Stop.”

He returned to me and waited.

“If you want to be free, if you want see Elizabeth—and believe me, she’s waiting for you—then you have to let go of Nefertiti. Let go of your pain.”

He absorbed my words. I don’t know if I got through to him or if he’d already been thinking about the horror of his own afterlife. “I’ll stop. I won’t let my rage keep us trapped anymore.” He looked sad now. “But I still have fifty more years with her.”

“Let her go. And have a little faith.”

He nodded. Then he returned to the scene. He took the knife from behind his back, but instead of severing her head, he tossed it to the ground. “No more,” he said. “I’m done.”

Nefertiti blinked as if waking. Then she looked around. Her gaze swung to Johnny. “You bastard! You’ve killed us both!”

I stepped very close to the couple. Nefertiti screamed and wailed, but I ignored her. Johnny said nothing. He’d made his choice and he was sticking by it.

I unstoppered the crystal vial. “I wish to break the binding between Johnny Angelo and Nefertiti. “

A gold mist weaved out of the bottle and surrounded them. “Wish granted,” said a tiny, musical voice. Then the mist was gone.

“I see Elizabeth,” said Johnny. He turned to me, his expression one of happiness and gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Where are you going?” cried Nefertiti. “We are bound!”

But Johnny was rising and as he did so, he faded away. She turned to me. “What have you done, witch?”

“Duh. I just broke your binding. You can thank me later.”

I took Gabriel’s hand and walked away.

“What now?” he said.

“Well, my sister will show up soon with her fiancé,” I said. “So, we’ll be planning a wedding. “ I raised my hand and ticked off my fingers. “We have to start a drug rehabilitation program. I have to figure out all this ‘ruling two nations’ stuff. And we need to find a new place to live.”

“As long as I’m with you,” said Gabriel, “I’m happy.”

I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him.

You know what?

Being a prophecied queen ain’t half bad.

Six weeks later …

Brigid was a goddess, the mother of Ruadan, and the grandmother of Patrick and Lorcan.

She was also wrong.

She peered at me, her green eyes narrowed. Strange, gold patterns pulsed all over her body. They swirled and changed into different symbols and shapes.

The symbols were her magic, which constantly changed to accommodate whatever healing spells she needed.

Dr. Stan Michaels stood on the other side of me, writing on a chart.

He was wrong, too.

“I’m dead,” I reminded them.

“You have a heartbeat,” he pointed out. “And you’re breathing.”

Those two things I had figured out for myself. I could also shape-shift into a wolf, but that was nothing compared to the news I’d just received. “I have no uterus.”

“Yes, you do,” countered Dr. Michaels. “I just x-rayed you twice.”

Gabriel sat next to me on the examining table. He held my hand tightly.

“Don’t you believe in miracles?” asked Brigid in her lyrical Irish accent. “You’ve been given one.”

“Three, actually,” said Dr. Michaels.

“Triplets,” I said.

“Triplets,” repeated Gabriel.

We looked at each other and grinned.

Drinking Gabriel’s blood had given me the gift of heartbeats and breathing and shape-shifting. My body had been made whole again.

We were doing all right in our new leadership roles, though getting vampires and lycans to play nice wasn’t all that easy.

She shall bind with the outcast, and with this union, she will save the dual-natured.

I had never imagined that the prophecy meant I would literally save the dual-natured. Whether or not they liked it, the future of vampires and werewolves was growing in my regenerated womb.

The next generation of loup de sang.

A LETTER FROM PATSY

Dear Sean,

I’m sorry to hear that you are in jail. I hope you are doing well. And I mean that. We had a lot of years together and while they weren’t all sunshine and roses, I think I’m a better person because of our marriage.

Wilson is in a program for recovering drug addicts. He’s doing really well. You should be proud of him. I go to meetings, too, and that’s why I’m writing to you.

I want you to know that I forgive you. I don’t know how hard it is to live with the demons that drive you. Or what it’s like to crave alcohol so badly you’d do anything to get it. Whatever you did, whatever you said, it’s okay. I’m at peace with our past.

I hope that you can forgive me, too. I wasn’t the easiest person to please or to live with. I know my flaws could drive a saint to distraction. All the same, I don’t think we would’ve made it. It took me eighteen years to realize we weren’t meant to be.

Now I know what it’s like to be with your soul mate. It’s not all sunshine and roses, either (ha, ha), but it doesn’t matter, because love always smooths out the bumps in the road.

You don’t have to write me back. But if you want to, that would be just fine.

I wish you so much happiness, Sean. And love. Good luck to you.

Sincerely,

Patsy

THE SEVEN ANCIENTS

(In Order of Creation)

Ruadan: (Ireland) He flies and uses fairy magic.

Koschei: (Russia) He is the master of glamour and mind control.

Hua Mu Lan: (China) She is a great warrior who creates and controls fire.

Durga: (India) She calls forth, controls, and expels demons.

Velthur: (Italy) He controls all forms of liquid.

Amahté: (Egypt) He talks to spirits, raises the dead, creates zombies, and reinserts souls into dead bodies.

Zela: (Nubia) She manipulates all metallic substances.

GLOSSARY

A ghrá mo chroi: (Irish Gaelic) love of my heart

A stóirín: (Irish Gaelic) my little darling

A Thaisce: (Irish Gaelic) my dear/darling/ treasure

Cac capaill: (Irish Gaelic) horseshit

Damnú air : (Irish Gaelic) damn it

Deamhan fola: (Irish Gaelic) blood devil

Draba: (Romany) spell/charm

Droch fola: (Irish Gaelic) bad or evil blood

Gadjikane: (Romany) non-Gypsy

Filí: (Old Irish) poet-Druid

Ja: (German) yes

Liebling: (German) darling

Loup de Sang: (French) blood wolf

Mo chroi: (Irish Gaelic) my heart

Muló: (Romany) living dead

Roma: (Romany) member of a nomadic people originating in Northern India or Gypsies considered as a group

Romany/Romani: (Romany) language of the Roma

Solas: (Irish Gaelic) light

Sonuachar: (Irish Gaelic) soul mate

Strigoi mort: (Romany) vampire

Vampire Terms

Revised and Updated by Lorcan O’Halloran

Ancient: Refers to one of the original seven vampires. The very first vampire was Ruadan, the biological father of Patrick and Lorcan. Several centuries ago, Ruadan and his sons took the last name of “O’Halloran,” which means “stranger from overseas.”

Banning: (see entry: World-Between-Worlds) Any vampire can be sent into limbo, but the spell must be cast by an Ancient or, in a few cases, their offspring. A vampire cannot be released from banning until they feel true remorse for their evil acts. This happens rarely, which means banning is not done lightly.

The Binding: When vampires have consummation sex (with any living person or creature), they’re bound together for a hundred years. This was Ruadan I’s brilliant idea to keep vamps from sexual intercourse while blood-taking. No one’s ever broken a binding.

The Consortium: About five hundred years ago, Patrick and Lorcan created the Consortium to figure out ways that paranormal folks could make the world a better place for all beings. Many sudden leaps in human medicine and technology are because of the Consortium’s work.

Donors: Mortals who serve as sustenance for vampires. The Consortium screens and hires humans to be food sources. Donors are paid well and given living quarters. Not all vampires follow the guidelines created by the Consortium for feeding. A mortal may have been a donor without ever realizing it.

Drone: Mortals who do the bidding of their vampire Masters. The most famous was Igor, drone to Dracula. The Consortium’s Code of Ethics forbids the use of drones, but plenty of vampires still use them.

Family: Every vampire can be traced to one of the seven Ancients. The Ancients are divided into the Seven Sacred Sects, also known as the Families.

Gone to Ground: When vampires secure places where they can lie undisturbed for centuries, they “go to ground.” Usually they let someone know where they are located, but we don’t know the resting locations of many vampires.

Lycanthropes: Also called lycans. These shape-shifters can shift from a human into a wolf. Lycans have been around a long time and originate in Germany. They worship the lunar goddess. Their numbers are small because they don’t have many females, and most children born have a fifty percent chance of living to the age of one.

Master: The vampire who successfully Turns a human is the new vamp’s protector. Basically, a Master is supposed to show the Turn-blood how to survive as a vampire, unless another Master agrees to take over the education. A Turn-blood has the protection of the Family (see: Family or Seven Sacred Sects) to which their Master belongs.

Roma: The Roma are cousins to full-blooded lycanthropes. They can change only on the night of the full moon. Just as full-blooded lycanthropes are raised to protect vampires, the Roma are raised to hunt vampires.

Seven Sacred Sects: The vampire tree has seven branches. Each branch is called a Family and each Family is directly traced to one of the seven Ancients. The older you are, the more mojo you get. A vampire’s powers are related to his Family.

Taint: The black plague for vampires. Thanks to experiments with Lorcan’s unusual blood, Consortium scientists have formulated a cure for the disease.

Turn-blood: A human who’s been recently Turned into a vampire. If you’re less than a century old, you’re a Turn-blood.

Turning: Vampires can’t have babies. They perpetuate the species by Turning humans. Unfortunately, only one in about ten humans actually makes the transition.

World-Between-Worlds: The place between this plane and the next where there is a void. Some people can slip back and forth between this “veil.”

Wraiths: Rogue vampires who believed they were at the top of the food chain. After the defeat of their leader, Ron, aka Ragnvaldr, it appeared they had been disbanded. However, the Ancient Koschei was the true leader and he took up the banner of vampire domination.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

My research took me to ancient Egypt, one of my all-time favorite places. Do you know how many times I’ve watched The Mummy and The Mummy Returns? Okay, not exactly research, but I’ve watched numerous documentaries, bought many research books (and they’re big and heavy, too), and I even have a small collection of cool Egyptian knickknacks. Nothing actually from ancient Egypt, but all the same, they’re really cool.

I tried to make the Turning of my vampires somewhat interesting. I know that Patrick Turned Lorcan, but let’s just say after Lor killed him, Ruadan came along and did all the mumbo jumbo to make his other son a vampire. So I have written it, so it will be. Ta-da!

You may have noticed the emphasis on alcoholism in this novel. This is not a subject I had to research since I’ve lived with alcoholics all my life. Some people are ashamed about what goes on in their homes. They’re afraid to get help or afraid of what others might think about them.

Let me tell you something: You deserve safety, good health, and happiness. Help is available 24/7. You just have to decide to ask for it. Pick up a phone, get on the Internet, or walk to a friend’s house.

I highly recommend this Web site for anyone who is affected by alcoholism: http://www.al-anon.alateen.org.

You are not alone. You deserve love. You are worthy of a better life.

And baby, that’s the truth.

Keep reading for a sneak peek of the

next novel in Michele Bardsley’s

Broken Heart paranormal series,

Wait Till Your Vampire Gets Home

Coming from Signet Eclipse

in November 2008

I hugged the large oak tree as I tried to catch my breath. Sneaking around this creepy little town in the dark—and during winter, no less— was not one of my better ideas. Especially after I’d been scared out of my wits by those … those howls.

Shivers raced up and down my spine. What in the world had made those terrifying sounds? Surely not dogs. Coyotes? Wolves? Eek! My shivering turned into full-body shudders. My parents were convinced that real werewolves roamed the woods. They’d spent their whole lives trying to prove that paranormal beings, aliens, other dimensions, and all kinds of weird and wacky things existed.

Despite never finding a single speck of evidence, my parents still believed in all that hooha. As soon as I hit eighteen, I checked out of their world of insanity and entered wonderful, sensible, logical reality.

I listened for the howls, relieved when I heard nothing but the wind rattling the branches above me. Some reporter I was! Hadn’t I come here on the trail of an arsonist? I wasn’t supposed to let little things like rabid dogs (ack!) and bad weather stop me from getting the story. This was my chance to prove I was made of sterner stuff. I had to find this guy before anyone else, so I could ditch my piddling assignments. If I had to write one more obituary … argh!

I pressed my cheek against the tree. No warmth there. Why hadn’t I thought of a ski mask? The black parka had done a fair job of keeping most of me warm, but the hood offered no protection to my face. My skin felt scraped raw by the freezing air. And the rough bark wasn’t exactly helping, either.

I let go of the tree, but stayed close. Okay. I needed to regroup. I let my thoughts drift around the information I’d accumulated so far. The arsonist was nicknamed Dragon. He always started fires on the roofs of buildings. He never used an accelerant, so the police couldn’t figure out how he started such hot, fast fires. My contact in the police department said that detectives believed that Dragon was from Broken Heart.

I readjusted the strap of my purse, which clunked in protest. I was a big believer in being prepared. My parents might be a taco short of a combination platter, but they’d taught me many skills. MacGyver had nothing on me.

I inhaled, but didn’t really appreciate the loamy smell of earth and the crisp scent of pine—mostly because it felt like tiny icicles were forming in my nose and my lungs.

I’d forgotten my gloves, but though my hands were Popsicles, I clenched the oak. Heart pounding, I peered around the wide trunk.

A man was burying a coffin.

It looked new, though the grave was not. The heart-shaped marble tombstone looked worse for wear; the top right corner had broken off.

Oh, this was much better than running away from the scary clamor of unknown creatures.

I was fairly close, but because my glasses were flotsam in the junk sea of my purse, I had to squint to read the inscription:

THERESE ROSEMARIE GENESSA

BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

1975—2005

How he managed to maneuver the mahogany casket into the hole, I don’t know. He was strong, even though he looked like a normal guy. Nice bod, but not one made by Bowflex. It was his apparent normalcy that perplexed me. Hmm. What kind of person buried a casket at nearly ten at night? Hey! What if he was a drug dealer or a gunrunner hiding the goods?

My excitement drained almost immediately. Neither of those scenarios felt right. He wasn’t trying to be covert. And wouldn’t someone burying something other than a body have a second guy watching? Or at least look over his shoulder more often?

The sad truth was that I had probably stumbled upon an employee of the cemetery.

Well, poop.

The silence was ungodly. No chirping of crickets, stirring of little animals, or twittering of birds. In this odd quiet, the shovel rasped unpleasantly as the man thrust it into the pile of dark soil and tossed it into the grave. The earth thudded onto the coffin.

Rasp. Thud. Rasp. Thud.