The Librarian's Vampire Assistant

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “Horsty, such drama today! Say it isn’t so!”

  I draw a deep breath. Good woman. And annoying. “Mister. Vander. Horst. Learn it, Lula. And learn it well.”

  “Why? They’re gonna fry you.”

  “For what? For caring about Clive?” I say.

  “No. For killing some useless inbred on someone else’s territory in broad daylight, lying to another society’s leader, and for turning a human without filing the proper petition or meeting any of the predetermined criteria.”

  The criteria are simple. The person has to be a person of interest—critical to all vampires’ survival. That means someone capable of covering our tracks—accountants, politicians, and people of power. In addition, they can’t be psychotic, though that is open to interpretation. Otherwise, one has to petition. If it is a matter of life and death, and, say, for argument’s sake, the human is a family member or spouse of the vampire, and said vampire turns them without approval, then they will face extraordinary punishment. Bottom line, we all have family, bloodlines, and loved ones. Turning everyone we ever cared for could jeopardize our secret existence since a small population is far easier to keep quiet.

  I clear my throat. “She won’t turn because she’s going to heal.”

  “You don’t know that, and why would you risk it?” Lula asks.

  “She’s special.”

  “Errrr…like, boner special? Or cosmic special?” Lula asks.

  “Why must you always be so crass?”

  “It’s my thing. Answer me,” she insists.

  I want Lula’s help. That means I need to answer truthfully because any action she takes on my behalf hitches her wagon to mine.

  “Miriam is…” I hesitate, searching for the words while I take my towel in the other hand and start patting my wet hair. “Beautifully selfless.” And alone and weird and kind.

  “Does she have a nice rack?”

  “What?” I bark.

  “It’s just a question, your holy catastrophe. I find men—human, vampire, or otherwise—are more apt to proclaim ‘special status’ for a female if their boobs are, say…C cup or larger?”

  I finish my one-handed drying and toss the towel onto the beige armchair in the corner near the fireplace. “Miriam’s breasts have nothing to do with this. I’ve never even looked at them.” Because she covers herself in two layers of unflattering clothing.

  “Doesn’t matter now,” Lula says. “You’ve given her your blood.”

  “Yes,” I say with conviction. “And I don’t require your judgment.”

  “I’m saving the judging for tomorrow, after we find out if I have a new sister of the night.”

  I suck the air through my teeth. “What was I to do, Lula, allow her to die?”

  “You hardly know the woman and you intervened.”

  “I know this,” I say dismissively.

  “Then why, Horsty?” Lula asks, sounding more upset than she should. I genuinely don’t comprehend why.

  “Stop calling me that,” I say.

  “Fine. Then why, Mr. Vanderhorst?”

  I rub my forehead and breathe out my words. “I don’t know, Lula. I think I’m losing my mind.” They ended Clive’s life without any regard for who he truly was. And just like that, the world is out one very good man. Where’s the damned justice in that? “Clive, who has given more to civilization than anyone I’ve ever known, has been snubbed out, and I’m not sure I can make sense of anything.”

  There’s a long, long moment of silence. “Kill ’em, Michael. End the people who did this.”

  For the second time today, I’m shocked. I’m simply not used to feeling anything, let alone having emotions rule me. But at this moment, they are. Lula’s words only serve to fuel them.

  She adds, “I’ll cover for you—anything you need. Just act quickly and come home. We’ll deal with the aftermath together.” She sighs with the deepest sorrow. “I can’t get through this on my own, Michael. I can’t.”

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” I look down at my bare feet and nod though she can’t see me. “I’ll let you know what I need.”

  “But no librarian, Michael. I’ve lost too much and can’t share right now.”

  Lula isn’t claiming me sexually, but emotionally. Vampires have few attachments, and when we are in need, we need with everything in our hearts and souls. Plus, we simply don’t like sharing. “I understand.”

  “Good,” she says. “I’ll hold down the fort in the meantime.”

  “Thank you, Lula.” She is an anchor in my stormy sea. “By the way, can you find me a furnished apartment? Something a person my age might rent?” She knows when I say “my age” I mean twenty and that I’m asking because I have to establish residency in addition to employment in order to remain in this territory under the law. The catch is that the law also states our kind never lives beyond the means of our human cover story. In short, librarians do not live in mansions or drive Mercedes; neither do their college-aged assistants. Back home in Cincinnati, I own a very nice house and lovely cars because I had a wealthy uncle (me) who left a nice trust fund behind. I work in an entry-level job as a researcher—from which I’m currently taking a “vacation”—but they all think I do it for my passion to cure rare blood disorders. The truth is I find the job interesting and it allows me to study my own “disorder” after hours. It also grants me access to an easy food supply. It’s a win-win for all.

  Here in Phoenix? Not so much.

  “You got it,” Lula says. “One modest dwelling coming right up. I’ll text you the address later. Good luck, Michael.”

  “Thank you, Lula.”

  “Thank me by coming home,” she says with a tinge of worry.

  She gets that I’m on shaky ground by being here. On a good day, I can outwit and outmaneuver any vampire—physically or mentally. But right now, I’ve made a mess of things. I have let my emotions take over. First by killing the librarian’s boyfriend and then by giving her my blood. Don’t forget lying to the locals so I can pressure them to find Clive’s killer.

  Jesus. What am I? A hundred years old? I throw the phone on the bed and decide it’s time to turn in. I’m a night sleeper and today needs to be over.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Though it pains me beyond words, the next morning I head to Target and buy clothes to fit my new “sunny” identity. While I’m here, I have to convince the society that I’ve come to stay—job, home, car. After buying some sneakers—Kill me now—a variety of jeans—Awful!—and those tacky graphic tees—Why are snakes now called danger noodles?—to go under my button-down shirts, it’s time to head to the airport and address the car.

  “You sure, man? That SUV is a sweet ride and it’s only ten bucks more a day.”

  “I love saving gas,” I say blandly. “Gimme the damned car.” It’s some compact thing that’s electric. I do not understand why any sane person would drive a vehicle that must be plugged in for hours at a time, but it’s a testament to my love of Clive. “And can you hurry, please? I am late for an appointment.”

  The tall hippy lump on the other side of the counter stares, and his right eye twitches with lust at my pecs underneath my tailored button-down shirt.

  Dear God. Not now. “Don’t bother. I’m into women,” I say, but really I’m into no one. Romance is for fools, and love is for the ignorant. I’m a vampire. We live, we take, we exist. Belonging to a respectable family and loyalty are all that matter, but one can hardly call that love.

  The clerk nods with shame, and screw me, but I feel bad for hurting the young man’s feelings.

  “Not that you’re unattractive…” In your bright orange polyester shirt that hasn’t been laundered in over a week. And it’s clear you’re not one for dental hygiene, but… “I simply enjoy breasts. Really big ones.”

  For the record, breasts are lovely, but o-negative is lovelier. A big bowl of extra hot curry eggplant is even better. Add them together, I’m in heaven.

  “Have you con
sidered a new hairstyle perhaps? You have very fine cheekbones,” I say in a sad attempt to offer him advice. If anyone knows about sex appeal, it’s a vampire.

  “Whatever, man.” He slides the car keys over the counter along with the contract. “There’s a map with charging stations inside.”

  I nod and head to the parking lot. It’s only ten in the morning, and I’m very literally cooking in my black jeans, black low-top Converses, and baby blue Oxford. The sunscreen I’ve applied isn’t nearly powerful enough, only adding to my misery.

  Then I spot my car. It’s an electric blue shoebox, hardly large enough for one leg let alone my entire body. And that color? “Someone please end my existence.” I push the remote, the car beeps, and I squeeze into the beige seat dotted with delightful coffee stains. Clearly, the previous drivers had no respect for my beverage of choice.

  I start the engine, and within twenty minutes, I’m pulling into the parking lot of my “age appropriate” rental, not too far from the ASU campus in Tempe. I stop mid-lot, and my hands strangle the steering wheel. “No. No. Noo…”

  I reach for my phone and dial Lula.

  “Mikey?”

  My nostrils flare. “Do not. Call me. Mikey.”

  “What do you need, oh mighty sourpuss?”

  I inhale. “Have I in the past, or recently, ever indicated I wish to sell drugs?”

  “Is this a trick question? Because I’m sensing hostility.”

  “Lula! It’s quite possibly the vilest dwelling I’ve ever seen.”

  A loud snicker explodes over my phone’s speaker.

  “Jesus, woman, I don’t have time for this!”

  “Whoa, Mikey. I did the—”

  “Mr. Vanderhorst,” I correct, sensing that this battle of names is one I’m going to lose. At the moment, I’d really be grateful for a home sans bedbugs.

  “Mr. Vandersuckit, I did my research, and while I perfectly understand you’re accustomed to a certain level of comfort, the objective is for the sunshine-wackos of Phoenix not to have an excuse to eject you. The law says you must live within your means. You. Are. A college student—not even that since you’re not enrolled in squat. And, according to you, you’ve set your sights on a position as a librarian’s assistant. Let me repeat that. Assistant librarian, the most underpaid job on the planet aside from sidewalk gum scraper, which pays nothing because it’s basically community service. So, Mr. Sucky Ungrateful, be thankful I found you anything that doesn’t require a roomie.”

  I grind my teeth, letting her childish insults slide. She is in mourning, and lashing out is her way of coping. Besides, I am a very secure man. It takes more than a little name-calling to rile me up.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else? A dumpster on the back lot of Whole Foods? A locker at the Greyhound station?” I ask.

  She snorts. “Sorry, bud. Not on such short notice. And even then, with an annual salary of eight thousand, good freaking luck finding as much as a hedge with a McDonald’s bag—for shade, of course, because it gets hot there and you won’t survive ten minutes without it, my king—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “You are a king,” she argues.

  “Cincinnati is hardly a kingdom.”

  “Ask Europe about that—they’re not sizist. Have you seen Monaco?”

  My patience evaporates. “Lula,” I warn, “I’ve yet to have coffee this morning, and I have another marvelous day ahead of imbeciles and a librarian I’m worried to death about.”

  The moment those words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake. I scramble to reframe. “I mean that her fate greatly impacts mine and therefore ours.” I sigh and comb my fingers through my short hair. “I simply want to get home.”

  A long silence ensues.

  “Lula?” I prod.

  “Yeah. Sorry.” She swallows audibly. “I’m trying to keep it together, but I’m not doing a great job.”

  “I’m sorry. I know it is not easy for either of us.”

  “The apartment is the best I could do on such short notice. I promise.”

  “Thank you, Lula.”

  “Sure,” she says glumly. “Stay safe. Call if you need anything else.”

  The urge to go to her grows stronger by the moment, and I know it can only be worse for her. Clive connects us, but I’ve always been a lone wolf. Regardless, if a wolf like myself feels the void, I know a social creature like Lula feels it more.

  I need to get home.

  After inspecting my postage-stamp-sized studio apartment with questionable stains on every surface, I stow my new clothes and adjust the temperature of the refrigerator. I have other priorities at the moment, but I will soon need to find a source for my vitamin B, which requires a perfect thirty-five degrees to satisfy my needs. I will put Lula on it.

  A half hour later, yellow daisies in hand, I sign in at the front desk at the hospital, hopeful that Miriam has made significant progress overnight.

  The moment I turn the corner, I see a tall man with dark eyes and a unibrow exit her room and go in the opposite direction.

  “Hey!”

  The man sees me and dashes into the stairwell.

  Crap. I dart to Miriam’s side and find her face is a pale shade of blue. All of the monitoring equipment to her side has been turned off.

  I toss the daisies to the floor. “Miriam?” I tap her cheek, but it’s like slapping a chilled ham.

  “Nurse! She’s not breathing!” I yell. The unibrow man. Did he do this to her?

  I hear a scramble of footsteps outside the open doorway, and a nurse appears.

  “Her heart’s stopped,” I say.

  The nurse screams over her shoulder for a crash cart, and I turn my attention back to Miriam, who’s turning bluer.

  Dammit. Dammit. No. I have a second, two tops, to decide what to do. I could let the staff try to help her and hope she pulls through. Or I can give her more blood, but then her body is likelier to go into shock, increasing the odds that she’ll die and turn. This is not a life I’d wish on my worst enemies. Plus, I would go to the equivalent of vampire jail.

  I look at the life fading before me and growl. There’s a reason I’ve never been a maker. I don’t want the responsibility, the inconvenience of worry. I never, not even once, asked Clive for details about doing it. I simply had no interest in giving my blood for any reason.

  A staff member outside the door yells, beckoning the team to Miriam’s aid. I have to decide. If she does die, I could stake her before she rises. End of librarian.

  I suddenly think of the moment when Clive, my then professor at Cambridge, where I’d been sent away to school, came to my deathbed. A common flu. The liquid in my lungs had made it impossible to breathe, and he’d offered me an unbelievable option: to be cured.

  I always knew there was something different about him—a man of thirty couldn’t possibly know so much about the world. Yet he’d taught me to think beyond my shallow life as the son of a wealthy merchant in New York—then known as New Amsterdam. My own father, of Dutch origin, had been too busy making money and selling supplies to the Dutch settlers to teach me anything. Clive took one look at me my first day of class, and I felt like I was home. He seemed like he had all the time in the world for me. Obviously, it was because he had.

  “Tell me, do you want to die, Michael? Or when you close your eyes, do you see a life ahead, filled with promise?”

  In my state of fever, all I could think of at the time was that I hated feeling miserable and sick. “I want to get better,” I said.

  He grabbed me by the shoulders and stared into my eyes. “Better or great, Michael? Because only those who aspire to greatness can survive this. And only those with conviction will endure. Which is it, boy? How great are you willing to be? What are you willing to give for it?”

  I can hardly recall what I said next, but it was a phrase I would come to regret for the next one hundred and eighty years. I felt like Clive robbed me of my death and gave me a life I hadn�
�t been prepared for. All in all, it left me with a bad taste for turning others—not even those I loved. I got over being a vampire, obviously, and Clive taught me how to think, fight, and survive. Most importantly, he taught me to make my existence matter.

  Regardless, I have never mattered to anyone. Not like Clive mattered to me. So call me insane. Call me impulsive. But watching Miriam die makes me want to show Clive that I’ve learned the most important lesson from him: how to truly care for another.

  I quickly tear into my wrist and rip away Miriam’s respiratory tube. A spoonful of blood slides town her throat before my time is up and the doctor and nurses rush into the room.

  “What happened to her breathing tube?” the nurse asks.

  “I don’t know. I walked in, and it was out. I called you right away.”

  I back off as they get to work and start to open her gown, clearing the way for the paddles. Vampire or not, I am a gentleman. I have no right to see her bare breasts.

  “I’ll wait outside,” I mutter.

  Once in the hallway, I press my back to the glossy white wall and listen to every word the team says, praying silently that she will make it. I cannot bear the thought of looking into her eyes and saying, “You died, Miriam. And now you are undead.” Because now I am sure I would never stake her to cover my tracks. I would sooner go to jail.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After an hour of breathing assistance and the medical team’s effort, Miriam is up and running. I cannot describe the relief. There will be no new vampires in Arizona today.

  The nurses shoo me off and tell me to come back later, so I take the opportunity to follow the scent of the man who disappeared into the stairwell. His track is thick with garlic—Blech!—and cheap cologne. I’m not surprised, given his shady appearance, until it leads me ten blocks away.

  “What the devil?” I stand in front of the library, where his trail ends. My best guess is that the man is related to Miriam’s boyfriend. Both men had the same broad shoulders and sinister look in their eyes.