Veronica and the Vampire

by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  VERONICA AND THE VAMPIRE

  by

  Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  Copyright 2011 – Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  Published by – Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  Cover art - Croco Designs

  http://www.lindathomas-sundstrom.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication of use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  VERONICA AND THE VAMPIRE

  Chapter one

  “2521 San Vicente.”

  Through squinty eyes, Veronica Davis looked out of the passenger side window of her retro blue Beemer.

  “White brick building. Fancy part of Santa Monica. Tasteful Black awnings. Topiaries in urns. Clean sidewalk.”

  Her next notation was in the form of a four-letter word. “Shit.”

  Glancing at the paper clutched in her right hand, the paper now almost reduced to confetti, she figured she needed this building about as much as she needed a hole in her head.

  She wasn’t completely manless, really. She was only experiencing a lull. A space. Between men.

  Knowing she was pressing the limits of a diagnosis of early onset OCD, she peered up at the numbers and down at the paper three more times. Okay, maybe five or six more times. And it was still 2521 San Vicente each time she looked.

  Already she had a love/hate relationship with this address.

  Another glance. She couldn’t help it. Yep. 2521.

  “Shit.”

  Taking in a breath, blinking slowly, more to calm herself down than anything else, Veronica also knew that it wouldn’t do to have her first panic attack alone on a Santa Monica sidewalk. Neither would it be pleasant having the friend who had written down this address for her know that she had been too chicken to actually get out of the car, let alone make it through that big wood door. That really big, rather imposing black lacquered door.

  “Calm down, V. Be calm.” Meditative words from someone who didn’t meditate but desired the benefits.

  “Slow your breathing. Count backwards.”

  No, counting backwards was what people did under anesthesia.

  Damn.

  Of course, what did she really care what her cubicle mate thought? How had Annie Drew known about this place, anyway? For sure, leaving now might stave off a probable attack of the panic variety. Veronica Davis, a.k.a herself, might be prone to the occasional fit of nerves, but had thus far managed to ward off a full-blown fit. Anyone who would have grown up in her dysfunctional family would certainly have this same little problem in regard to coping skills.

  If she had just happened to mention to Annie that her sister’s wedding was this weekend and that she’d be an outcast if she didn’t show up with a date, and also that her family quite possibly might make her stand naked on a table in front of all the invited guests to point out all of her flaws — not to mention the reasons why no man in his right mind would want to marry her . . . Well, surely that would be reason enough for any new friend to want to help her out, right?

  If she, Veronica Davis, law clerk for Dodder, Dodder, and Finch, had just happened to mention all of those things to her cubicle mate, who actually had a suggestion she thought might help? Good thing, yes? Clearly, she could picture the expression Annie had worn above the high collar of her faux Gucci blouse once the Veronica rant had stopped streaming. Annie had simply nodded quietly, torn a scrap of paper from the file she had in her possession, and scribbled something down. An address.

  2521 San Vicente.

  Annie had uttered only one word to go along with the address on the paper. Escort.

  Geez, Veronica thought now. What sort of people resorted to an escort service to help solve their dating problems, anyway?

  “Losers, that’s who.”

  So, why had Annie known this address by heart?

  Though relatively new to the firm, Annie seemed like a nice enough person. She was dark-haired, pretty, and a virtual Mecca of shopping information. In the six months they had shared a cubicle the size of a cheap hotel bathroom, they had progressed to the occasional lunch, then to discussing confidences. And well, now that she thought about it, she, herself, might have been the only one to share confidences. As a matter of fact, now that she thought back, it was entirely possible Annie had never offered up any personal details at all.

  So, what she should do was start the engine and drive off, right that minute — and end up out of the country. If she were out of the country, she couldn’t possibly attend this wedding, could she? Well, could she?

  Only truly pathetic people used the services of professional dates. People who didn’t even have a single male contact they could entrust their sisters’ weddings to.

  Veronica peered at the rearview mirror to make sure the big L on her forehead wasn’t actually visible.

  Then again, her frantic mind proposed, if there had been a male in her life, she would never have exposed him to this particular upcoming family gathering anyway. Uh-uh. No way. Torture being the operative word.

  And if you didn’t have a date, or even a friend you’d subject to some honest-to-goodness mental distress, who did you call?

  An escort service.

  “Geez.” The paper in her hand was speaking to her now. “Get out of this car,” the paper directed. "Get your little butt into that brick building." That sterile-looking, foot-traffic-free building that no one had gone in or out of during the hour she had been staring at it.

  “I can go in there. I can do this.”

  After all, she didn’t have to do anything, just go inside, look around, and maybe, if intrigued, speak to the salesperson.

  No personal information had to be provided in order to look. She’d use a fake name, if anyone asked. Susan. Sylvia. Stephanie. She’d always liked the name Stephanie. So-named, she could just mosey about, sort of like a visit to the Pound. At the Pound, browsers could take a look at all the puppies without actually having to go home with one. You could nurture a few warm and fuzzy moments, gratis. And if a puppy caught your eye . . .

  Not that an escort service would have a bunch of guys in cages for your perusal. Although, now that the thought occurred, she had to admit that guys in cages wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Half naked guys in cages. Half naked guys in cages who looked like Chippendale dancers.

  What a concept!

  Checking the rearview mirror again, Veronica found herself smiling wickedly. Bolstered by the image of all those guys needing someone to take them out for a little exercise and fresh air, supposing they had all been given their shots and would be waiting to lavish affection upon a potential looky-loo like herself, she opened the car door.

  She stepped out in her comfy, sensible-heeled business pumps and tried-and-true navy-blue business suit, and straightened up bravely on the pavement. With a quick slide of her hands down her thighs — contoured by her new roll-away elliptical machine — to ease the wrinkles out of her skirt, Veronica then applied the same smoothing gesture to her face. A woman couldn’t be too careful at twenty-three. There was no elliptical machine for the cheeks.

  “2521 San Vicente? Piece
of cake. A walk in the park.”

  All those puppies . . .

  Back ramrod straight, Veronica hopped the curb, strode across the sidewalk, heading for that black lacquer door. She yanked on oiled bronze handles that bore no small resemblance to the outstretched wings of bats . . . and breezing across the threshold, passing out of the afternoon sunlight and into the dimmer world of the unknown, she caught the gleam of a small gold plaque subtly placed at eye level.

  The sign bore the legend: V.A.M.P. Inc.

  Chapter two

  Her mind tripped over the acronym as she entered a posh, dark-paneled hallway.

  V.A.M.P. Inc.?

  Very Assured Male Professionals?

  Value Added Manly Presence?

  Virtually Alive Male Partners?

  Vigorously Active Male Prostitutes?

  As the door closed behind her with a notable clunk, part of her wanted to laugh. The other parts wanted to run. Actually about to turn for a hasty exit, she was stopped by a herald from a feminine voice.

  “Excuse me. Are you Veronica?”

  Had someone just spoken her name? Couldn’t have, since she hadn’t chosen a fresh one yet, but just in case, she turned to see.

  “I’m Cynthia,” a dainty woman with long blonde hair said quietly and without any sudden movement that might have hastened Veronica’s retreat. “Annie Drew said you’d be coming.”

  Adjusting her previous mental image to fit the word saleswoman, and trying not to stutter, Veronica said, “Annie called you?”

  “Yes,” Cynthia said. “About ten minutes ago. Don’t worry, we can get started right away. Annie mentioned you’re short on time.”

  “You . . . You know why I’m here?”

  “Of course. Your sister’s wedding is tomorrow. It’s rather short notice, but since it is a night wedding, I think we might be able to help you.”

  Now that her eyes were somewhat used to the darker surroundings, Veronica took a good hard look at Cynthia. The woman’s shoulder-length blonde hair was close to Veronica’s own color but worn very curly, around a pleasant, unassuming sort of face.

  Dressed in a pale gray suit, with a skirt hemmed an inch or so above her knees, and with matching leather shoes and no stockings, Cynthia looked like most of the women at Veronica’s law firm. Maybe a bit younger than most. She wore little makeup, and looked relatively trustworthy.

  “You can leave your purse here,” Cynthia added, pausing beside a table.

  “Thanks. I didn’t know what to expect.”

  Wasn’t that an understatement. And how could she make a full retreat now, graceful or otherwise? She was trapped. She couldn’t run, but wanted to. She couldn’t whimper, but wanted to.

  “Don’t worry, Veronica. We’re as reputable as they come. This company has been around for more than a hundred years, you know,” Cynthia said.

  “I sure hope you’ve changed the guys you use since then.”

  Smiling at the little joke, Cynthia gestured for Veronica to follow her down the length of the foyer, where she turned into an oblong hallway, then continued down another adjacent corridor of cherry-hued, wide-planked wood. The sound of their footsteps was softened by the thickness of several beautiful and costly oriental carpets. Inside her head, Veronica heard cash register sounds, and began to worry about her credit card limit.

  The hallways got even dimmer as they walked. Veronica trailed several steps behind Cynthia, noticing that there weren’t any windows in these hallways, and that what light there was came from lamps on tables, where lavish silk floral arrangements mirrored the tasteful carpet colors.

  “I’m a bit nervous,” Veronica confessed, growing stiffer by the second and wondering if the darkness hid skid marks — in the direction of the street.

  “Sorry about the short notice, Cynthia,” she added. “I understand completely if you’re booked up.”

  In fact, she was praying they would be all booked up, politely, without moving her lips. She hoped this was a gross inconvenience, and vowed to play along for only a few more minutes before getting the heck out of there and giving Annie Drew a piece of her mind when she got back to work.

  “Oh, I think you’ll be happy to hear we have eight for you to choose from,” Cynthia said, bursting the hasty retreat bubble. Veronica could have sworn she heard a big popping noise.

  “Eight?” she croaked. “Choose from?”

  “I’ll show them to you now,” Cynthia said over her shoulder.

  “Show them to me?” Veronica repeated.

  “Annie did mention that you get to choose your escort?”

  “Actually, she didn’t mention anything of the kind.”

  Cynthia stopped, turned, and waited for Veronica to come alongside. “So like Annie to be discreet, and her discretion is appreciated. We’ve had one other referral from her, and that turned out very well. It’s how we do business here, you know; by referral only. That’s why we can help you with this wedding, and are happy to do so.”

  Discreet? Veronica was thinking. This was Annie being discreet? The words big-time, pertaining to payback for Annie, all of a sudden didn’t seem enough. Try all out war.

  When Cynthia started walking again, Veronica couldn’t pry her knees apart to follow. Sensing the hesitation, and with that real keen insight really good salespeople have, Cynthia paused again, and smiled.

  “They’re just down these steps. I’ll be with you all the way.”

  “You mean you have them here? Waiting? In person?”

  Could they really turn out to be in cages? A rippling-muscled, highly tanned all male lineup? Maybe milling about on sofas? In thongs?

  Although the panic of the situation remained, it hovered less obtrusively all of sudden.

  “The eight I’ll show you are all extraordinary individuals,” Cynthia continued. “You can’t go wrong with any of them, really. However, I have one in particular in mind. I won’t point him out, though. I wouldn’t want to influence you in any way, when attraction is such a personal thing.”

  Well certainly Cynthia couldn’t have pointed him out, Veronica thought. Wouldn’t that have been rude, in front of the other seven guys standing or lounging around?

  She moved after her hostess on a wide staircase that curved downward. If they were heading for a basement, it would be the first one Veronica had ever seen in California, and she’d been born and raised there. Los Angelinos were sun people, not prone to frequenting dark, moldy, windowless places.

  Experiencing a chill at the thought of “subterranean” Veronica tried out her reasoning skills. Question one: Why would guys be waiting for anything . . . in a basement?

  Oddly enough, no answer sprang to mind.

  Her anxiety kicked up a notch. Several notches. All these ups and downs were like emotional cross-training. Her heart was pummeling her rib cage as she and Cynthia descended into the depths of the building.

  When they came to another door, this one looking to be iron-clad, the phrase white slave trade echoed in Veronica’s mind. Her teeth clamped shut against a rising shout.

  Cynthia, on the other hand, gave a slight inclination of her head that set her blonde curls bouncing, then led the way into a cavernous room — high ceilings, the same lack of windows, and no other exits visible. At the threshold Veronica was hit by the citrusy scent of lemon oil. Like furniture polish.

  She couldn’t see the floor. What light there was came in the form of tracks high up near the ceiling that provided a hazy glow reminiscent of an old disco. No mirrored ball, just plenty of ambient light, each low voltage light bulb shining down upon a single item, like in a museum or fancy art show. Except that the items highlighted by these lights weren’t statues or paintings.

  It took a minute more for Veronica to realize what they were. Then she did whimper. Just once, beneath her breath.

  The room was filled with large wooden crates, all lined up in two straight rows. Four on each side. Eight altogether.

  No. Not crates.

  Cl
austrophobic, struggling to breathe while trying desperately to make sense of this, Veronica murmured, “You’re kidding, right? Those are . . . coffins?”

  As the last word faltered, she was suddenly sure of one thing. Annie Drew had gotten her on this one. Oh yes, she’d been had, all right. She’d been sent to a damned funeral home! There must have been a metaphor in there somewhere, such as: There are worse things in life than not having a date for a wedding.

  Joke was on V Davis. She got it.

  Time to skedaddle.

  “Wait,” Cynthia said as Veronica backed up a second step, needing to distance herself from the row of shiny, brass-trimmed coffins, each of them sitting atop its own marble table.

  “I see now that Annie left quite a few things out.” Cynthia sounded sympathetic.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Veronica snapped. “I may be desperate, but do I have to go along with the entire joke? Sorry Cynthia, I’m out of here, and Annie is in trouble.”

  “Veronica.” Cynthia’s tone was hushed and carried not one single hint of impatience. “May I please explain?”

  “Why you were in on the joke? What Annie gave you to participate?”

  “You’ve got this all wrong. Please. May I speak?”

  Veronica nodded skeptically because she had to. Cynthia had used the magic word please. Plus, Veronica wasn’t sure she knew the way out of there. She’d left her purse in some hallway or another, with her keys inside; and because she had no idea how to jumpstart a car, she was temporarily at Cynthia’s mercy.

  What had she been thinking?

  She scanned the row of coffins again, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  Still there.

  “These are the eight I told you about.” Cynthia alluded to the row of gleaming, overbearing coffins with a gentle wave of her hand. “Come. Take a look.”

  Veronica assumed a legs-apart stance, with her hands on her hips, the only manageable gesture in her personal arsenal of reticence. “Are you serious? The guys you mentioned are inside of those things?”

  “They’re inside, yes.”