Broken Heart 03 Because Your Vampire Said So (14 page)

I studied the rest of the cemetery. Nearly all the graves had fresh dirt on them. Their tombstones were tilted, broken, or fallen. The place looked as if it had been ravaged by an earthquake. Seismic activity in Oklahoma? Not exactly the scintillating news I was hoping for—although it would be a change from tornadoes.

My gaze returned to the man. It seemed wrong to get any closer. After all, he was completing an awful task. But I was curious. I also wasn’t interested in retracing my steps. I might accidentally find the source of those hair-raising howls. He might not know it, but he was the closest thing to safety I had right now.

About five feet away was a lone pine tree with thickly covered branches. I shot out from my cover and raced to the pine, ducking under its flagging limbs. The needles poked at me, so I scrunched down and watched him. I was near enough to see his determined expression. He had brown hair, cut short. A nice, friendly face. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but pleasant.

I crouched next to the tree and froze my butt off while watching him fill up the entire hole. I don’t know why I stayed. Watching a man do this heart-wrenching work wasn’t exactly chasing down the big story. I guess I just didn’t want to leave. I felt like someone needed to be there standing watch with him, even if he was unaware of my presence. Stupid, right?

You’re too soft, Libs. That’s why you’ll never get far in this biz. Hah! What did my editor-in-chief know? He was jaded. Wearied by the job. Due for retirement. I’d gotten my degree in journalism because I wanted to find real news about real people. Squishing down people’s major life moments into twenty-five words or less was still better than slogging through the Louisiana swamps looking for Bayou Boo, half man and half alligator.

Yikes! It was so cold! I clamped my lips together to keep my teeth from chattering. The man patted down the dirt with the flat end of the shovel. He wore a light jacket, jeans, and sneakers, not exactly cold-weather gear. Yet he didn’t seem all that affected by the freezing temperatures.

He stared at the grave and I stared at him. Something about him niggled at me. His face was a shade too pale. I couldn’t fault a guy who wasn’t into baking his skin. No, it was his utter stillness that freaked me out.

Then I realized he wasn’t sweating. Not a drop. After lifting a coffin and then burying it, he wasn’t perspiring. He wasn’t even out of breath.

“You can come out now.” He leaned on the shovel and turned his gaze directly to the pine tree. To me.

How had I given myself away? Even though moments earlier I’d thought of him as my safety net, I wasn’t going to stroll out and introduce myself. He was good at digging graves; I didn’t want to be the next one he buried.

“You are not afraid. You will come to me,” he said. His voice dropped an octave and went all seductive. A grave digger who wanted to put the moves on the lurking stranger. In a cemetery. Yuck.

I clutched the tree while my mind raced. Oh, to hell with it. I ducked out from underneath the unwieldy branches and raced toward the forest.

I heard the growls two seconds before I saw the animals issuing the threats. Two huge, pissed-off wolves loped toward me.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!

“Aaaaaaaaahhhh!” My scream echoed into the dense forest. Heart thumping, stomach roiling, fear prickling, I made a U-turn and ran back the other way. Their growls gave way to fierce barking.

REPORTER EATEN BY KILLER CANINES. That would be the headline. My boss would tell everyone at my funeral, I told Libby she didn’t have the chops for the job, but I never thought she’d end up as chops. And he’d guffaw, that evil bastard. I was so putting salt in his sugar dispenser when I got back to the office.

I shot past the pine tree. He was still there! My grave-digging safety man! His puzzled expression switched to alarm. His eyes went wide and he dropped the shovel, which was a good thing, because I launched myself at him.

He caught me, staggered backward, and then tried to let me go.

“Pick me up! Pick me up!” I screeched. “Save me already!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning, national bestselling author Michele Bardsley lives in Oklahoma with her family. She escapes the drudgery of house-work by writing stories about vampire moms, demon hunters, interfering goddesses, cursed wizards, and numerous other characters living in worlds of magic and mayhem. She loves to hear from her fans! Visit her Web site at www.MicheleBardsley.com or drop by the Broken Heart Web site at www.BrokenHeartOK.com.