Murphy's Law of Vampires (Love at First Bite Book 2)

by Declan Finn

  This only meant one thing: the official and the unofficial position of his government overlords was simple, and vampires did not now, or ever, exist. Merle would be expected to handle “whatever” all by himself.

  At least increase my budget, you lousy pricks.

  “You mean the best you can do is throw money at the problem?” said a voice from behind him.

  Merle stopped at the door to his magic shop and sighed. It was his half-brother Dalf; and if he wasn’t in his traditional top hat and magician’s tuxedo and cape, Merle would probably drop dead from shock. “What is it, Dalf?” Merle asked without turning around. “I rid New York of the immediate vampire problem. Can’t you leave me in peace for five minutes?”

  Dalf smiled, Merle could hear it in his voice. “Immediate, yes, but nothing more.”

  Merle turned to meet his brother’s eyes. His shirt and blood-red tie were the same, and his cape, and his top hat, and his cane topped with the silver wolf’s head. The only thing that identified the two of them as brothers were the identical blue eyes. Otherwise, Dalf was Boston Brahman black Irish, and Merle definitely wasn’t.

  “Funny,” Merle said, “it’s the afternoon, are you allowed out in the sunlight?”

  His half-brother grinned then waved his hands at the perpetual San Francisco fog.

  Merle nodded. “Point taken… actually, I’m surprised that vampires haven’t come here yet, the fog all the time, almost no direct sunlight, plenty of bums and freaky weirdos to eat and…” He blinked. “You son of a bitch, there are vampires here.”

  Dalf smiled – evilly, as usual. “It’s not like I brought them.”

  Merle grabbed the door to his store and pushed in. As usual, Tiffany Whitman was there behind the desk.

  Tiffany was fated by her name alone, and fit the stereotype brilliantly—she was a total and complete blonde, with breasts that should’ve been implants. The only reason for her employment is that she was great with numbers, as long as they had a dollar sign in front of them. If Merle paid her on commission, she’d haggle with him to the penny, and she’d be right.

  Her boyfriend, George Berkeley, was a nice enough fellow. He wasn’t that bright, but big, burly, and kind, with brown hair, brown mustache—and sitting off in a side aisle reading a guns-and-ammo magazine. He was the very definition of Neo-Conservative: a Liberal who’d been mugged.

  Merle looked over his shoulder. Dalf was still there, mysteriously enough. Merle moved into his well-lit store, certain that Dalf wouldn’t follow, preferring instead to stay in the shadows.

  “How’s business?” Merle asked.

  Tiffany looked up from the cash register. “We’re making lots and lots of money.”

  He sighed. “That’s nice, Tiffany. Anything happening as of late?”

  George looked up from the magazine. “There’ve been some murders, but that’s the only interesting thing in the news lately.”

  “How’re murders interesting?”

  “No blood at all,” George rumbled, “even though they were kinda gruesome.”

  “Not to mention that they stole several of the bodies from the morgue just last night,” came a new voice. Merle looked over and spotted Yana Rosenburg: slight build, red hair, green eyes, more cute than pretty. She was a bright young woman, which made Merle wonder what she was doing with Tiffany and George half the time.

  He looked over at Dalf. The snide smirking son of Satan had vanished. His point had been made, and the message received. And if I have half a chance, I’d stake him through the heart. “They stole bodies, huh?” I looked closely at Yana. “Why do you think it’s ’they’?”

  “Same method on different sides of town around the same time.” Yana shrugged. “It’s not that hard.”

  “And when I took out one of them, it didn’t stop anything,” George added.

  Merle cocked his head. “You did what?”

  George shrugged. “Some guy jumped me on Grant Street, near one of the knife places—you know, throwing knives and swords? Took his head off. His partners must have taken the body away, because it was gone when the police came back with me.”

  An idea was starting to form. Should I bring these people into my little world of strangeness? “Yana, you said you have a friend who’s big on hand-to-hand combat?”

  She nodded. “Yup. Sarah. Why?”

  “I’m not sure yet. An idea just occurred to me.” I might need eyes and ears if this is going to be more than I expected. “You think it’s the work of a gang?”

  Yana nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe. Most of the people dying are all similar: young, healthy, and kinda nasty.”

  Merle raised an eyebrow at her victimology. She answered the unasked question: “They’re all connected to violent crimes.”

  George glanced up from an article on the latest Glock. “Some of them were mafya…you know, the Russian kind.”

  Merle frowned. Great, so there are vampires in town, and already active. He eyed the three of them closely. Technically I can bring them into my little secret—just not about the government involvement. But still… And besides, if I do nothing, these kids would probably all get eaten. George was already attacked in a place he hangs out, and Tiffany would be with him one of these days, and Yana was his best friend since they were two.

  And I can’t be everywhere. “I think I need to bring you folks in on a project I’ve been working on.” I also need to make a phone call.

  * * * *

  There is a town called New Orleans, and it’s been the ruin of many a poor guy, but Merle’s brother Tal sure as hell wasn’t one of them.

  Tal Kraft ran a store on Bourbon Street, mainly for tourists, called Dark Krafts, but that was only when he wasn’t on the road as the magician Taliesin, the best thing to happen to illusionists since David Copperfield—the magician, not the Dickens character. However, unlike the tall, lanky Copperfield, Tal was tall, broad, with skin darker than polished mahogany, and eyes of a deep, dark, midnight blue that matched Merle’s and Dalf’s.

  He also ran something called the New Orleans Vampire Hunter’s Guild… What else would one expect from a place that had spawned Sherrilyn Kenyon and Anne Rice?

  Tal had what had to be the biggest resource in the market of freaks and weirdos …

  Just in case there were things other than vampires out there I had to be aware of, Merle thought.

  After Merle finished convincing his New Orleans brother that he wasn’t crazy, and might need Tal’s help eventually, Merle hung up, and turned back to his employee. Tiffany was busy with a customer, and Yana and George were chatting up a short fellow with supernova red hair that had obviously come out of a bottle. He looked sort of like the old actor Barry Fitzgerald, from The Quiet Man, if he ever played anything other than little old men his entire career. And of course, to fit the image, he came complete with an Irish brogue.

  Merle approached with caution. He had wanted to talk with Yana and the others about the vampire problem, and it was already too dark at the moment, so all of Merle’s more interesting customers were about to start crawling out of whatever coffin they slept in—and those were just the humans.

  With any luck, I can get rid of Mister Potatohead and start the very strange conversation I have in mind. “Ah, Yana... maybe I should hire you, you’re already so friendly with the customers.” Merle looked at Tiffany, who was busy eyeing the cash handed to her by the latest customer. “Unlike some people,” he muttered.

  ”Actually, this is a friend of ours,” Yana explained. “We met him on campus not too long ago. Transfer student to the university. Rory.”

  “Pleased to meetcha, lad,” he said in a thick brogue, extending a hand.

  Merle nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t unusual for people to start on their education later in life, but this man was easily in his forties, and the smile lines along his face looked older, and his eyes looked older still… in fact, Merle had some idea of where he knew them.

  He’d seen a similar look in Amanda Colt
’s eyes back in New York.

  Merle reached forward and grabbed Rory’s hand. It was cold… about room temperature.

  Merle’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced over to the other customer, just departing. His grip tightened and with a simple move, Merle flipped Rory to the other side of the room, slamming him against a wall. Merle slid into a combat stance without a thought.

  Rory was, unsurprisingly, on his feet in a split second, and, without taking his eyes off him, Merle said, “Tiffany, close the door.”

  The blonde stood there, blinking for a moment, then quickly moved to flip over the sign to “Closed.” She then stood at the door, checking for any potential customers who were turned away by the sign—Undoubtedly to tell me how much speculative cash we lost with this hiatus.

  “Might I ask what yer problem is, sir?” Rory asked.

  “Your body temperature, you bloodsucker.”

  Rory paused a moment, then he smiled. “Ah, and he’s one of the hard men, is he?” He looked at Yana, then George. “You’re right, he is a quick one. Quicker than they say. But then again, who knew that was possible, eh?”

  Merle quickly checked his peripheral vision. Both George and Yana were still seated. They hadn’t even been surprised by Rory being thrown about. “You know what he is?”

  Yana nodded. “I did… George, um, not so much.”

  George looked up from his magazine. “Did I miss something?”

  “Your friend over there is a vampire,” Merle explained.

  Rory smiled. “At least I’m not an IRS agent, yeah?”

  Merle arched a brow. “You’re not from around here, right?

  Rory blinked a moment, probably wondering if Merle hadn’t noticed his red hair, green eyes, or Irish brogue. “Good guess.”

  “And next time you eat someone, take a dose of mouthwash, you have blood breath.”

  Yana took a step forward. “Um, Mister Kraft, it’s kinda like this… we’ve known Rory for a year now, and he hasn’t eaten us, um, yet, so we thought we could introduce you to him.” She leaned forward, and her voice dropped to an innocent whisper. “It’s about the recent murders. It’s not about gang violence.”

  “Yes, it is,” he corrected her. “Only the gangs are bloodsuckers.”

  George looked around with his normal, easy going style. “Wow, this is like a Hammer film. Which one is Dracula?”

  “Christopher Lee, isn’t he always?” Merle muttered. He grabbed the back of a wooden chair and lifted it so he could grab one of the legs. With a flick of his wrist, he broke off the leg, creating a handy stake. “Now, start talking.”

  Rory nodded. “I came here a bit back, befriended this lot to get close to you, Mister Kraft. There’s trouble brewing, and from what I hear, you’re the one to talk to about it.”

  Merle sighed, and lowered the stake, visibly relaxing so Rory could take a swing if he thought his guard was down. “Sure, I’m Nero Wolfe for the supernaturally inclined.”

  Tiffany let out a breath. “Thank God.”

  Merle laid the stake against the counter. “Yes, it could’ve been bad.”

  Tiffany: “No, it was bad, that’s why it’s good!”

  He rolled his eyes, knowing that it would be useless to play twenty questions. “Explain.”

  “You broke the chair with the bad leg,” Tiffany cheered, “and that means we don’t have to fix it, yay! You saved us money! Are you finally getting money sense?”

  He looked at the wooden stake, then reconsidered… If I staked Tiffany, there would still be a body left over. Nuts.

  George closed the magazine and put it aside. “So, we’ve got a vampire, a magician, and a werewolf. I think we have enough for a D&D campaign.”

  Merle kept his eyes on the vampire. “We have a vampire, a magic store owner, and a what now?”

  “Werewolf.” George shrugged, as placid as ever. “My last girlfriend was a biter.”

  “Not a wolf!” Tiffany called over his shoulder. “Wolfhound. You’re not a problem, honey!”

  Merle looked back to the vampire. “You’re a dog?”

  “He’s really a gentleman. No. Really,” Tiffany corrected, almost sadly. “He’s a gentleman.”

  George sighed. “I guess I’m too laid back to be a wolf?”

  Merle frowned. “So, vampire—”

  The redhead held up a hand. “To start with, my name at the moment is Rory, and I’d prefer it,” the vampire said. “It would raise fewer questions than my real name.”

  “Which is?”

  Chapter 5: Enter Darkness

  San Francisco, May 20th

  Marco Catalano’s first thought, looking at the University of San Francisco, was Wow, they have a nice field of fire here.

  Marco looked on with approval. The campus wasn’t very large. If it topped out at a dozen acres, he would be surprised, and he hoped that the campus before him was merely a main campus. So far, it seemed to be a really nice, green lawn, closed in on three sides, leaving the open side to the main street and facing Golden Gate Park, which Marco had already dismissed as a cheap imitation of New York’s Central Park (even though the same man designed both).

  Heck, he thought, this central park has a windmill, what do they think this is? Don Quixote? New York has a friggin’ castle, take that, you dirty hippies!

  Marco sighed. That was his third hippie thought today, and he hadn’t even been near the more hipster part of the city yet. He was going to explode if he even got near Haight-Ashbury.

  What the Hell am I doing here? I’m ready to set this city on fire if I stay here five more minutes, and I’m actually considering a whole regimen of Physician Assistant studies here? Four more years for a Master’s? Yeesh.

  Of course, the answer came to him fast enough. Amanda.

  His problem was less with Amanda and more with himself. He loved her, there was no question, but he was a bit of a monster. And not in that “Oh, poor me, I’m a natural born predator, whine, whine, simper, simper” crap.

  For Marco, it was more along the lines of “Oh, you’re mugging me? Good, I wanted to kill something.”

  And the monster inside of Marco was vicious; it was the only thing that had saved him a few weeks ago, when Mikhail the Bear had started breaking him one piece at a time. Marco had forced eye contact, and Mikhail had forced his way into Marco’s brain. The centuries-old, evil vampire had been the one to pull away, screaming, afraid of what was in Marco’s head.

  There were also other things to consider. He was a genius. The problem with being a genius is being easily bored, as any true genius can tell you…in his case, he would also insist that he was annoying; the student body of his university agreed with this assessment. He wasn’t welcome there. There was a possible solution in going to a nice, quiet little town to attend classes in—though “little” was relative, considering the size of New York City. Thus far, San Francisco offered a full scholarship and hinted at offers of sex, drugs, and rock and roll if they could only get him and his 4.0 GPA there.

  “Can we help you?”

  Marco glanced over at a trio of female college students. None of them were much taller than five-foot, and they were an odd set of two blondes and a redhead. The redhead was more cute than pretty, the athletic blonde was certifiably pretty. The taller blonde (topping out at 5’5”) was a dirty blonde who wasn’t excessively pretty; she had muddy brown eyes and a square face, a stout figure, and leaned towards butch without falling into it.

  Marco’s brain automatically compared them each to Amanda. It was like comparing candles to the sun.

  Next.

  Marco’s omnipresent little smile flickered, widened for a split second, then he offered his hand. “Marco Catalano, prospective student.”

  The redhead reached forward and took it. “I’m Yana Rosenburg.” She nodded to the taller blonde, and said, “This is Tara. And this is Buffy.”

  Marco blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

  The athletic blonde rolled her eyes, and looked to Ma
rco. “Sarah Bell. They’re just being funny.”

  Tara shrugged. “She complains when we call her the Chosen One,” she said in a soft, almost childlike whisper.

  Sarah looked at her taller friend and said, “That’s because I am so much cooler than Keanu Reeves.”

  “True,” Marco said, his voice deadpan, “but would that really be hard?”

  Sarah gave him a look he was familiar with—sizing him up, trying to fit him for potential dating material. He couldn’t figure out what her conclusions were when she said, “Hope to see you around, should you come around, I mean.”

  Marco shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  * * * *

  Marco looked at the storefront for the Art of Kraft, the magic shop run by Merle Kraft. It was on the Embarcadero, the closest San Francisco had to a Rodeo Drive, or a Fifth Avenue.

  Meh, I suppose it’ll do. He walked up to the front door, and hesitated. He knew it was good manners to at least talk to Merle Kraft. After all, the government employee and magician had paid for Marco’s trip out here, and had even offered to pay for the rest of his academic career, as long as he came to San Francisco. Politeness dictated that Marco at least stop by.

  “The last thing I need is another problem,” Merle Kraft muttered as he shoved a box onto the shelf. He turned back to the front door, and stopped. “Damn it, of course you show up now.”

  Marco arched a brow. “Well, if that’s your attitude about it, I’ll go back to New York.”

  Merle Kraft sighed. “Come on in. Have a look around.” He waved a hand at the rest of the store layout.

  Marco glanced around and shrugged. There wasn’t much to see. “Been there, done that. You sure the University of San Francisco even has a PA program?”

  Merle smiled tiredly. “Yup. If it didn’t, I would have found somewhere else.”

  He nodded, then looked over the shorter man. “You look like hell.”