To Catch a Vampire (5 page)

“Human?” I ask, taking the goods.

“Of course. Have a nice night.” She walks away.

I shut the door, holding human blood. I know Oliver usually drinks pig blood (I asked), and I’ve only seen him once after trying the human variety. It was not a pretty sight. Black eyes, torn flesh, fun scar on my neck. Don’t want a repeat. I set the thermos on the desk as the coffin thumps again. Suddenly, hot space pirates aren’t that interesting. I can’t take my eyes off the coffin.

There are two clicks inside it. Using the remote, I lower the black window slats to snuff out the remaining light from outside. Even the slightest sliver of UV light can light up a vamp like a brush fire during the Santa Anas. “It’s safe to come out now,” I say, when the last of the light disappears.

The lid lifts. Huh, I was wrong. I thought for sure red satin lining, not white silk. Of course, the boxers he’s sporting—and nothing else—are red. I can’t help myself, I take him all in. His skin’s almost the color of the lining. I’ve never seen him this pale before, with dozens of soft blue veins cascading and crisscrossing all over his body. It makes him look … vulnerable. It doesn’t help that his skin is drawn across his face like a bad face-lift with sunken-in eyes to boot. A corpse. He looks like a corpse.

His gray eyes fly open, darting immediately to me. He blinks a few times to focus. “Blood,” he croaks.

I leap up, wanting to get away from him. I grab the thermos, twist off the cap, and hand it to him. He snatches it out of my hand, gulping down the blood, Adam’s apple bobbing. The red liquid drips from both sides of his mouth, landing on his muscular torso. I watch as the veins fade away and the pink returns to his skin. Even his brown hair revitalizes, gaining back its shampoo commercial volume and shine. The thermos leaves his lips, and he wipes the blood off his chin, smudging it. “Will you please get me a wet towel? I made a mess of myself.”

I do as he asks, returning as he steps out of the coffin. “Thank you,” he says, taking the towel. I watch with my mouth half open as he wipes his broad chest.
Hello
. The memory of the last minute fades from memory. As he moves, his muscles become taut. I don’t know much about his life before becoming a vamp, but Irie told me he was a farmer somewhere in England. I believe it. He’s muscle bound, but not in that scary way popular with Hollywood. He just has the outline of a six-pack and pecs, with well-toned arms, and only the beginnings of love handles. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but I’ve never taken him all in like this. Okay, I’m lying.
Every
time he has his shirt off I check him out. I can’t
not.
Like all the other times, my whole body heats up from the inside. Oliver notices me and raises an eyebrow. “Do you enjoy what you see?”

I snap out of it. “You are such a jerk,” is the best I can come up with. “And you’re a messy eater.”

“Dying does that to me, my dear.”

“Whatever. Put some clothes on, please. You’re not at home alone, okay?”

“We are a couple,
darling.
We should at least act as if we have seen each other in a state of undress.”

“We’re alone. Put. Some. Clothes. On.” I glare, but he smiles. He doesn’t move. “Look, I’m tired, hung over, weirded out, and royally peeved at you right now. If I have to, I will push you out the window and watch you fry! Now, get dressed!”

Grin Number Three disappears. “As you wish.”

I plop back into my chair, pretending to watch the movie while Oliver selects his clothes. Without a word, he retreats to the bathroom, shutting the door. Well, he wanted to be a married couple.

Water runs, I think teeth are brushed, and mouth wash is gargled. I didn’t know vamps brushed their teeth. He’s in there long enough for me to finish dinner and the movie. He steps out just as I push the room service tray outside.

My, my. We are a pair. He’s dressed in black leather pants that hug each centimeter. Pretty sure the boxers are gone now. His top is crushed velvet in cerulean, which brings out the blue in his eyes. Me, I look ridiculous in Goth getup, but Oliver could wear a muumuu and still look gorgeous. I don’t know if he looked better before in nothing or like this. Tough call.

“You look nice,” I say, closing the door.

“You look like a child playing dress up,” he says.

I scoff. “You’re the one who told me to dress like this.”

“Your outfit is too flamboyant. Keep the skirt and bustier. The shirt underneath must go. Did you pack sheer black pantyhose? Fishnets are so garish.”

Okay, that’s it. I have had it. I so don’t need this. I pick up one of my boots from the floor, and fling it at his head. “Jerk!”

He dodges it. I get the other and toss. It misses again.

“Please calm down, Trixie,” he says in a condescending tone.

“The heck I will! I did not put up with a killer headache, a rude driver, or a nymphomaniac just to be insulted. Is this even a real assignment? Because I don’t think so! I think this is just some elaborate setup to get me alone and uncomfortable because you enjoy torturing me. That’s what I think! Some people are missing? No real connection? Give me a break!”

“I would not waste either of our times on such a scheme when I know you will eventually come to me willingly,” he says with absolute certainty.

Rolling eyes time. “Then why am I here? Why not Irie? I’m sure she’s gone undercover before. And
she
doesn’t mind putting up with you.”

“You possess an ability she does not have. A natural immunity to my kind. You cannot be swayed by our mind tricks. It is an invaluable asset in this circumstance.”

“That’s it?”

“That and I thought it would be better for you to keep busy instead of dwelling on the unfortunate occurrence yesterday. That was my only ulterior motive.”

I meet his eyes. Crud. He’s telling the truth. “Then … oh.”

“I forgive you.”

I sigh, letting some of the tension out. Not much, but some. Just because this trip is legit doesn’t mean he won’t use it to his advantage. I’m still not completely at ease. I need a guarantee he won’t overstep his bounds. “Just know one thing: If anything happens, if there is
any
unprofessional behavior on your part during this case, it ends. I call Will.”

“You would tattle to William about me?” he asks with a genuine smile.

“Yes. And we both know what would happen after that.”

World War III complete with claws and fangs.

“I promise you my dear, I will be the height of professionalism.”

“Good. Then let’s get to work.”

Four

Keeping Up with the Joneses

I hate it when
he’s right. I
so
hate it. Luckily, he’s only been right about three times since we’ve met. I look so much better without the fishnets, mesh top, and five inches of makeup. Sitting on the toilet, I roll on the black pantyhose—control top, if you must know—and pull down my skirt. I re-apply my neutral base, red lipstick, and mascara before adjusting the girls in the bustier. Darn. Cleavage up to my nose. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t pop out at least once. I’m wearing a coat even if it’s two hundred degrees.

I do one final check through. Okay … wow. I look good. Real good. Bordering on sexy even, a look I have never been able to pull off before. My medium-brown hair cascades down my back frizz free. The clothes may be uncomfortable, but they pull the right things in, giving me a perfect hourglass silhouette. Not the ideal in the land of the impossibly gorgeous, but I’ll pass. No stomach too. Still need to lose about fifteen pounds and grow five inches, but overall not bad. I cover my hair with more hairspray and step out.

My “husband” stands by the bed, rooting around in the duffel bag. He looks up as I step out. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink for a few seconds. His eyes rove my body from toes to top, where they rest on my breasts. My entire body heats up in embarrassment.

“This is better, I take it?” I ask with a nervous chuckle.

“Yes,” he says in a husky voice. He finally blinks and looks away. An embarrassed vamp, there’s something you don’t see every day.

“I need you to do up the laces,” I say, turning my back to him.

He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Very well.”

I brush my hair off to the side as he joins me by the bathroom door. If he had breath, I’d feel it on my back now. I tense a little as I sense his eyes on my bare neck. This is where trust comes in. He’s tempted; I’d be a fool not to know this. This is like shoving a Big Mac in the face of someone on a diet. I mean, bare neck just inches from his mouth? But I know he won’t succumb. I just do. Weird, right? I don’t understand it myself. I trust my instincts. That and I have no choice; I can’t do the laces myself.

We stand completely still for a moment. The butterflies that have taken up permanent residence in my stomach since I took this job spread their wings and soar for the second time today. They have no loyalty. As his hand moves toward me, I visibly tense this time. He doesn’t touch me; his hand moves to the laces. He yanks the bottom one.

“This must bring back memories, huh?” I ask.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll bet you’ve done up a hundred corsets through the years, what with all those Victorian women you no doubt seduced.”

“I have done my fair share, yes. I was usually undoing them, though.” He pulls the final one and ties the back. “Done.”

Thank God.

“Thanks.” I flip my hair back and step away. Darn. The girls rose another inch. “Just like a married couple, huh? Me serving you dinner, you doing up my dress. We might actually pass.”

His left eyebrow lifts. “Married?”

“Yeah. You didn’t fill me in on our cover story, so I had to improvise. We were married a year ago in Vegas. I thought it might explain why we’re not so moony-eyed over each other. The thrill is gone,
pookie.”

Grin Number Three surfaces. “And is there anything else I should know? Do we have children or pets?”

I sit on the desk chair facing him. The butterflies return to their perches. “I did my best.”

“And you did beautifully. I do apologize for your ill preparedness. I did not have time while making all the other arrangements to provide a complete cover. If it is any consolation, I knew you would succeed without one.”

“I’m sure you did. So, care to share now? You do have a plan, right?”

“Of course,” he says, sitting on the bed right across from me. “The last three victims were last seen in Dallas at two clubs often frequented by human and vampire alike.”

“So we go there and ask questions?”

“Discreetly.”

“Didn’t the police already do that?”

“Yes, but the clientele were less than forthcoming. You and I will claim to be friends of the suspects. A cabal of seven vamps will be noticeable.”

“Right, but whoever these vamps are, they’ve probably moved on by now.”

“Possibly, but there still might be witnesses who can lead us in the appropriate direction,” Oliver says.

I scoff. “I’m sorry, but that’s your plan? Hit a couple bars, ask questions, and pray we luck out on the off chance these vamps even exist?”

“They exist. My source is convinced.”

“And you trust this person?”

“To a point. He has never led me astray, but I do question his motives.”

“Who is he?”

“It is not important. An accusation of a crime has been made, and as officers of the law, we are duty bound to investigate. And so we shall.”

“Do we even have a description of these vamps? Something to go on?”

“Yes, we have the description of one. Six-foot even, thin, blue eyes, midnight black hair. Answers to the name JR.”

“That’s it? I’ll bet half the men in this town are named JR.”

“If it helps, the source will continue to aide us when he is able.”

“Yeah, and until then we have to play lovey dovey.”

With an honest-to-God smile, Oliver reaches over and places his hand over mine. A feeling like warm honey trickles down my spine. His eyes meet mine, gray and clear. If I could, I’d turn to goo right now. “My darling, will that really be such a hardship?”

Someone takes control of my body, not me I don’t think, and pulls my hand away. Thank you unconscious mind. “Inappropriate touching,” I hiss. I stand above him. “I warned you.”

“My dear, if this farce is going to work, there must be some touching and, as you say, lovey dovey involved.”

“Yes, out there,” I say, pointing to the door. “Inside this room there will be no touching, flirting, nothing. Think you can handle that?”

“Do you?” he asks, serious as pneumonia.

My heart skips. “I can’t do this. Call Irie. I can’t do this.”

He stands up, now towering above me. “I do not want her here. I want you.”

My mouth flops open. “Did you not hear a word I said?”

“I will admit that the, how do you say it, ‘icing on the cake’ is a few days alone with you. We both know that. I do not deny it. But you are immune to vampire mind tricks. And we are about to enter a precarious world where we need every weapon in our arsenal. You cannot be forced to turn against me or yourself. We both experienced how horrible that can be.” He gazes at my neck, at the two ragged scars he put there. It wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t in control of his body, but I know he still feels responsible. Instinctively, I cover my neck with my hand as if I’m rubbing it. Oliver steps toward the television with his back to me. “You should not let them know about this immunity, of course. Do what they say, within reason. And try not to use your gift. We need to blend in, draw no undue attention to ourselves.”

“Got it.” It was my specialty in high school.

“Well, then. I think it is time to face the world.”

“You do know that clubs don’t get busy until at least ten?”

“I have been to a few in my day, yes,” he says, checking his hair in the mirror. He’s leaving it loose and wavy tonight. I like it better this way, but I’d never tell him that. It would mean I’ve actually thought about him. Don’t need to give him any more ammunition. “But it is customary for guests to pay homage to his or her host on the first night. Marianna is a stickler for tradition.”

“You know her?”

“Our paths have crossed,” he says with a private smile. Oh, great. She’s an ex. Just what I need.

“When?”

“About two hundred and fifty years ago in Barcelona.”

“And you two were … friends?”

Grin Number One with full fangs surfaces. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

Yes, but only an itty-bitty spark. It barely registers, I swear. “No,” I scoff, “but I’m supposed to be your wife. I need to know how to act around her.”

“It will come to you, I am sure.” He kneels down on the other side of the bed, pulling out his suitcase. Out comes a pair of black cowboy boots with white embroidery. I get my boots off the floor and sit in the chair, pulling them on as well.

“Nice boots,” I say. “Going native already?”

“One must adapt,” he says, putting them on. “If you are a good girl, perhaps I will buy you a matching pair.”

“Oh, we are not one of those couples. I hate those couples.”

He twists his body around to face me. “And what type of couple are we?”

“The kind that avoids each other as much as possible. A normal married couple. Think you can handle that?”

“Why did I ever marry you?” he asks, mock serious.

“I’m asking myself the same question,” I say, matching his tone. “Now, are you ready? Don’t want to keep your ex-girlfriend waiting.” I stand, smoothing my skirt.

“Yes, my darling.”

We walk out of the room, locking everything we can and putting the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. My stomach starts doing somersaults when the door closes but tumbles faster as we reach the steps. I hold onto the guardrail for dear life taking each step slowly.

“Here, let me help you,” Oliver says, taking my left arm. “Lean against me.” Reluctantly, I do. My left arm wraps around his right and I clutch onto his hard bicep. “Tomorrow you will buy more sensible shoes. You are no good to me with broken ankles.”

“Yes, pookie.”

We reach the bottom of the stairs and I pull away, but he holds onto my arm. “Oliver …”

“You are my wife,” he says seriously. “I
help
you.”

He’s right, darn it. We walk arm in arm down to the lower level, past the portrait of Marianna. Someone cackles in the other room, and I near jump out of my skin. I’m a terrible, horrible liar. What if they find out? What if I become dinner? What if they laugh at me? Oliver must sense my fear. He stops us at the bottom, doing something unexpected. He kisses my cheek, slightly cold lips on my hot face. I look at him, not sure what to do. Do I pull away? Do I slap him? I just stare. “Do not worry, my beloved,” he whispers. “I will not let the wolves feast tonight.”

“There you are,” a woman says in the other room. Gloria, the nudist next door, steps into the entranceway—fully dressed, thank the Lord. She’s in a skintight silver satin dress, her boobs barely contained. We match in that respect. Martini in her hand, she looks Oliver up and down as he often does to me. He allows her to do it, expressionless. “My, my, I can see why you don’t want to share. I certainly hope you change your mind.”

Another woman, almost identical to the nudist, except with bright red hair and even bigger boobs encased in white lace steps out. She moves behind Gloria, placing her hand lightly on Gloria’s shoulder. I’m Raggedy Ann at a Barbie convention. The woman eye schtups Oliver too, bee-stung lips pursed in approval. Again, he does nothing. A tsunami of anger washes the anxiety away. Beatrice Smythe doesn’t let sluts mentally undress her husband right in front of her.

“Excuse us,” I say through clenched teeth. I tug on Oliver’s arm to get him moving. We walk past the vultures, my head back and high. Oliver grins like a fool, either from the attention or my reaction. Most likely both.

We’re the last to arrive at the party. The others sit in black and red silk chairs or on the matching couch. The walls and floors are the same dark wood as the rest of the house. Cole, the concierge, stands behind the bar with martini, scotch, and brandy glasses all lined up with bottles of alcohol and blood. The walls, except for the one with the stone fireplace, are filled with photographs and paintings from various eras. The Wild West, the Thirties—it’s a historical society’s dream room. Above the fireplace is another portrait of Marianna, this time lying nude on a bearskin rug with her black hair styled like Veronica Lake’s.

The woman herself lounges on another fainting couch near a huge globe, sipping blood out of a martini glass. Unlike the rest, she’s dressed rather conservatively in black velvet capris and white button-down shirt with charm bracelet dangling from her small wrist. Her black hair rests on one shoulder, not a frizz anywhere. Her light brown skin, the same tone as my friend April’s, darn near glows. Her huge lips are painted red, or it could be from the blood. When we enter, her black eyes drink us in. “So good of you to show up,” she says. “I was beginning to worry.”

The others wait for Oliver’s response. A boy and girl, seventeen if they’re a day, sit next to each other on the couch, the girl’s long red fingernail caressing the boy’s thigh. They could be twins, with the same sandy blonde hair, dark blue eyes, long limbs, and even the same nose. Heck, they even wear the same style clothes, both in black leather suits. Red Barbie slinks in behind us and sits next to the girl, putting her slender arm around the girl’s shoulders and resting her head on her shoulder.

The other stranger sits in a chair, cigar in his mouth and ashtray on his ample thigh. He’s a large man, and even the expensive pinstripe suit can’t hide that fact. His belly rivals a pregnant woman’s. The rest of him is about as appealing as the potbelly. A bald head with a crown of dark brown hair from ear to ear with a matching mustache covering his top lip. I hate to admit it, but I’m relieved to not be the ugliest person in the room.

“I apologize, Marianna,” Oliver says. “My wife and I were … distracted.” He wraps his right arm around my waist.

“Glo, while you’re up, get me a drink,” the cigar man says.

Passing us, Gloria flips her hair back on the way to the bar. Cole pours some blood into a brandy sifter.
He’s
a vampire? Wonder how that happened. Normally, from what Oliver told me, a vamp gets lonely or bored and the first person they come across or are doing the horizontal mambo with is turned. Of course, usually they look like someone who struts on a catwalk. Who wants to spend fifty or so years making love to someone they have to pretend is Ryan Gosling every night? Cigar man has a story.