Veronica and the Vampire

by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  “You are prolonging the pain, Veronica. Only six steps to go.”

  She stood her ground. “If I look closely, will I see little bats in your irises?”

  “Not unless I want you to.” Christian gestured grandly for her to precede him to the stairs.

  “You aren’t going to argue with me, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just tell me one thing. Aren’t the bats in a vamp’s irises supposed to hypnotize people who see them? Because that would be a good thing right about now. Just until we’re actually inside.”

  “I’ll help by offering you my arm,” he said. “You can lean on me, and grip as hard as you like.”

  Afraid of gripping anything connected to Christian Dale, Veronica allowed him to lead her to a first step, right over a rose petal. The sweetness floated upward. She felt dizzy, and wanted to scream.

  A few people remained by the church doors, not yet sucked into the Charlene vacuum. Their heads were turned as though she and Christian either presented the picture of a very handsome couple, or else they were noticeably tardy.

  Veronica hoped with all her might that they had beat Charlene’s entry into the foyer with the bridal party. Charlene would be on Christian like a gnat when she got a first look. Charlene’s man radar would virtually sing. Instincts would demand that she divide and conquer.

  Of course, that’s exactly what Veronica had planned for. It’s what she had hoped for. This man taking the pressure off of the unmarried little sister. Except that now, all of a sudden, it didn’t seem like a very good plan. Now, she kind of wanted Christian for herself. Date. Co-conspirator. Her own private heater in a world that soon would turn chilly.

  Severe pangs of remorse hit her. Whatever had she been thinking by actually signing those papers at the agency? She should have asked the first nerd that crossed her path to accompany her, should have been content just to have a date, even one that wouldn’t garner her sister’s attention. She could have toughed it out alone, somehow. How could she possibly have known that her rent-a-date would turn out to be a really nice guy?

  In that moment, she’d have given almost anything to save him from this family fiasco, sparing him from what would surely unfold.

  Then again, she thought, stumbling as another idea began to percolate. Charlene might morph to flirt mode, new husband at her side, or not. Charlene might coax a smile from Christian, right off the bat. In this case, his smoldering smile might turn out to be a secret weapon.

  Fangs. Capital F.

  Upward went the weight sitting on her shoulders, at least partially. All of a sudden, she could breathe. This might, Veronica supposed with renewed enthusiasm, actually be worth the price she had paid to the agency to see Charlene’s reaction to the fangs. Oh, yes. Maybe Christian Dale truly could handle this, after all.

  “You’re going to use me,” Christian remarked as they mounted the first of several concrete steps.

  “Do you mind?” Veronica chirped, feeling measurably better.

  “No.”

  About to launch into a lengthy explanation about escort services and contracts, Veronica stopped short. No? He didn’t care if she used him?

  Christian bowed from the waist as if to remind her that she was queen for the night, and that he would play his part no matter what she had in mind. And this was better than gold. Her would-be vampire would handle this gig with style, grace, and integrity.

  With a little luck, as a couple, contracted or not, and coffins aside — Veronica concluded with a great big sigh of relief — they just might survive.

  Of course, the bubble of courage deflated as soon as she saw her mom.

  Chapter seven

  Sandra Davis was a vision in the doorway. A blue brocade mass, to be exact.

  Yards of sky-colored tulle dotted with sequins surrounded a set of pale, exposed, rounded shoulders, like stars hovering near a mountain peak. Like the scales of the Loch Ness monster, rising from the loch.

  Gone went all thought of foreplay, and dreams of whipped cream. The imaginary tiara tumbled from Veronica’s head. Although the buzz of electricity arising from Christian’s hand continued, bringing goose bumps to every inch of her quivering flesh, the church’s doorway — and what stood in it — had an immediate sobering effect.

  Self-confidence vanquished, Veronica put a hand to her chest. The sea of blue blocking their path rotated slightly, bigger than life, filling the space between the steps and the pews. Her mother wasn’t smiling. And her mother’s eyes were trained on the approach of the happy couple with intensity that screamed of the Spanish Inquisition.

  “Veronica. About time,” her mother mouthed, one hand on her ample blue hip, and looking like the teapot in the I’m a little Teapot song.

  Veronica’s intake of air nearly burst her dress at the seams. She tottered in her pretty shoes.

  “Ah,” Christian whispered with a possessive nuzzling gesture behind her ear. “It begins.”

  Oh yes, it was starting, all right. The building seemed to grow by ten stories, stretching like taffy, its tan stucco exterior soaring upward. The scent of crushed roses became sickeningly abundant, almost grotesque. They hadn’t even gotten inside yet, and her mother was ruining everything.

  Christian lifted his hand for a cheery wave at the blue blob, then gave another wave to the dark, as though he had found someone he knew in the distance, in the opposite direction. He turned Veronica around and hustled her toward a side entrance, hidden behind some trees.

  With her back to the wall, in a space of relative anonymity that was inches from the open door, Veronica faced Christian and held out her hand. “I was wrong to think this would work. I’m sorry. Do you mind removing them now, before it’s too late?”

  Christian’s face showed puzzlement before he caught on. His tone was amused. “I’m afraid I can’t remove them, darling.”

  The lovey-dovey word and the way he said it produced a twinge in her armpits, but Veronica refused to lose focus.

  “Christian, don’t you see? She will make mincemeat out of you. She will stop at nothing less than full battle. If it’s a business requirement, no one at the agency has to know about my request. I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”

  Christian’s smile faded slightly. “I’m sorry. I can’t change the teeth, even though I want more than anything to please you.”

  “You don’t understand,” Veronica said, but it was too late for more of an explanation. Music had started. Real music, this time. She peeked inside, where candles glowed yellowish-white, and vases held more flowers than she had ever seen in one place.

  Everyone was sitting down.

  She held her palm up with a stronger insistence. The teeth were a death sentence. Her mother was the mentor for Charlene’s gnat-on-the-donut routine. Her mother was the original shrew, as in The Taming Of. In fact, her mother was quite possibly the original queen of darkness. And she would find them.

  Veronica couldn’t let Christian take the full brunt of this mistake. No one deserved what she had planned to put him through. She had to do something, think fast on her feet, under duress.

  But Christian just shook his head and placed his hand in hers, not his fangs. Offering her a look that made Veronica want to weep, he nodded at the door.

  Faced with this situation, Veronica did what any self-respecting chicken-shit grownup child with mother paranoia would do in this situation.

  She let him drag her sorry ass inside.

  * * * *

  The church smelled like candle wax and bubblegum. The interior was dim, lit almost solely by the candles, with a few precisely placed wall sconces thrown in. Christian kept a steadying hold on her elbow. Did he think she would actually run? Smart guy.

  The darkness was punctuated by faces, none of the closest ones familiar. Charlene’s co-workers and new friends, Veronica guessed. Maybe Ross’s family. If she and Christian sat close to the door and among benign acquaintances, this portion of the ceremony might drift by without in
cident. She was all for that.

  Then somebody called her name.

  Her father!

  Holy crap!

  She and Christian turned in tandem in the side aisle to find James Davis closing in. Wondering how her father could have sighted them when he had been recently diagnosed with night blindness, Veronica cringed. Nevertheless, there he was, with people in the periphery looking on.

  From two feet away, Veronica first noticed that her father wasn’t looking at her. He was ogling Christian. Good old dad wore a look of surprise.

  Christian, relaxed except for the tightening of his fingers on her elbow, smiled without showing fang and held out a welcoming hand. “You must be Veronica’s father. I can see the resemblance.”

  James Davis’s forward momentum stopped. He looked to Veronica, then back to Christian, blank-faced.

  “Dad, this is Christian Dale. My date,” Veronica said.

  So as not to leave Christian’s hand suspended in the air, her father took it, shook hands. Then he sort of blew the cool image by repeating, “Date?”

  Christian kept right on grinning. “Gee, hun,” he said, “I’m going to be hurt if you haven’t mentioned me to your family.”

  James Davis’s gaze was on her questioningly. Veronica rolled her eyes. “I did tell you, Dad. Of course I did. We’ll talk later. The ceremony is about to start.”

  The rest of the crowd was looking to the rear door, where a puff ball of pink organza stood waiting. Bridesmaid. Veronica’s dad adjusted his tie and nodded, then turned on his patent leather shoes to head for the Pepto Bizmol-hued wedding gang.

  Christian steered Veronica into the closest pew, but its occupants would have none of it. The whole line of them stood, and ushered Christian and herself toward the center aisle.

  Christian sat closest the battle zone, allowing Veronica a bit of a buffer. Afraid to look around, fearing someone from Charlene’s side would spot little sister and complain about a breach in wedding protocol seating arrangements, Veronica sat huddled on the hard wooden bench. Her armpits were damp. Probably she’d gone pasty.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Christian whispered.

  “Reprieve only,” she mumbled, wanting to either toss the bubblegum-scented candle beside her, or chew on it. “Timing is everything.”

  “You weren’t asked to be a bridesmaid?” Christian queried.

  “I’d die first.”

  “Shame. You would have looked good in pink, I think.”

  Christian was glancing behind, toward the rear door, where a guy in a black tuxedo had hold of the arm of the first pink puff. From this distance, it looked like the man might have hold of a giant helium balloon, or Glenda, the good witch of the west.

  “Thanks,” Veronica said. “Maybe that’s why my sister didn’t include me. Pink has always been my color.”

  “This sister of yours has no stomach for competition, eh?”

  “Trust me. I am no competition for my sister. And the powderpuff girls in the wedding party cannot possibly appreciate how gladly I relinquished my place by Charlene’s side tonight.”

  “Still,” Christian murmured, “all those layers of lace would have been fun.”

  Veronica shot him a look.

  He shrugged. “I haven’t seen that much dress since the days of the Civil War,” he explained. “I like it.”

  Her date was nostalgic about Civil War costume? Veronica put her fingers to his lips, pushed them back. Yep. He liked something, all right. In fact, he was downright excited. Those teeth were almost fully extended.

  “Are you wearing any?” he asked her. “Lace?”

  The question produced an answering ping in unusual places. Three guesses where.

  “Aren’t you overstepping your bounds slightly?” she countered.

  “Does that mean you are, or aren’t?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Good,” he concluded with some very smoldery eye contact. The kind that makes countries fall.

  Veronica flashed again to his bio. Had it mentioned about these guys being sexual Svengalis? Warn that the women who took these dates might actually want to keep one for themselves? That hers might make her regret she hadn’t been a bridesmaid, covered in Pepto pink?

  And just what would Christian do with all that pink lace, anyway, if he were to get his hands on it?

  There was no time for further dreaming. The organ had paused without finishing the full rendition of the song it had been playing. A hushed silence filled the room.

  The tux and the first bridesmaid stepped through the archway. The tux couldn’t get too close to his girl, due to the sheer volume of her skirt, but the bridesmaid was smiling and clutching a bouquet of yellow roses, interspersed with white daisies and clumps of baby’s breath. The guy in the tux wore a single yellow rose pinned to his lapel.

  And all Veronica could think about was what Christian might do with pink lace.

  The atmosphere inside the church suddenly seemed oppressive. The huge stained glass windows were dark, their colorful images blocked by the night outside. The faces of the people packed into the pews were wavering in the candlelight.

  Pink lace . . .

  Pink lace . . .

  The tux and the maid stepped forward, trying to coordinate their movements. Another similarly attired couple appeared. From somewhere in the rafters the organist crashed his fingers down upon the keys in the first strains of a familiar tune.

  All heads turned to the pairs of people in the center aisle. Christian turned, but to Veronica. He looked at her as though he could hear her internal pink lace shouts, as well as her prayers for mercy. He leaned toward her, brushed his cheek against hers, ran his lips ran across the sensitive skin of her neck, above the collar of the black silk jacket. His hand was tightly clasped to hers, on the bench, very near to her hips.

  The air between them crackled with imaginary flames as the sudden x-rated image of what Christian would have done with the lace came to her, as well as what he would have done to her in the pink lace. He was sharing this information with her now, with his expression, his eyes . . . with people all around and the wedding party in the aisles.

  When he added a grin to the mix, Veronica found that she couldn’t move her face. Her trembling returned, twofold, as though her insides and her outsides were being put through a blender. All this pink stuff was churning. Christian’s eyes seemed so knowingly bright.

  Then . . .

  Then, Veronica realized, all the tuxes and bridesmaids had passed them by, and she hadn’t even noticed. Nor had she cared. The aisle was empty. She knew what came next.

  “You see,” the full, sensual lips next to hers whispered. “It’s all about perspective.”

  What? Christian had merely given her the old switcheroo routine? Taking her mind off one problem by confronting it with another? Substituting a little man-woman chemistry for fear?

  “Wow.” Veronica tried to grin right back. Everyone else had gotten to their feet, but she wasn’t sure she could manage.

  “Was it good for you?” Christian whispered to her teasingly, and as Here comes The Bride started up, he pulled her up off of the bench, and encircled her waist with his arm.

  Christian Dale, date, contract, fanged and very possibly dangerous — not to mention being suddenly the object of her erotic desires — stroked her back with his hands. His fingers dropped ever so slowly in a straight line from her neck to her waist, while Veronica fought back a moan of pleasure.

  His breath was very close to her face. His auburn hair had spilled across her shoulder.

  “Not perspective,” she said with a shake of her head. “Far from it.”

  “You’re right,” Christian agreed. “Maybe it’s about —“

  “Sex,” Veronica said, not realizing until it was too late how loud her voice was, or how the word seemed to hover in the air, as if God had surrounded it in a bubble.

  There were murmurings all around from the sea of faces, and some hushed laughter. Then some
thing white caught Veronica’s eye. A ghost. A holy ghost. She almost shrieked. When her eyes passed Christian by, her gaze came to rest on what looked like yards of mosquito netting floating on the outskirts of their pew.

  Banshee!

  Of course it wasn’t mosquito netting or the Irish creature that separated souls from their bodies. It was something with worse bite; something right up there with your all-time most memorable nightmares, trapped momentarily behind the copious veil and trappings of a virgin bride.

  Charlene hovered there, by the pew, having missed a step. She was holding onto their dad’s arm, with her fingers curled into the sleeve of his coat. But she had paused. In spite of the fact that her face was covered completely, there was no mistaking her surprise.

  “Congratulations. Charlene, is it?” Christian had the balls to say. “You look enchanting.”

  Veronica’s throat closed. Charlene was in there somewhere, wondering, questioning, stewing. Her date had just spoken to the black widow. The veil hampered the black widow’s response.

  Charlene couldn’t offer up the evil eye, as fate would have it. She didn’t dare. Not in the aisle, on her way to matrimonial bliss. Nor could she pause long to admire or admonish Christian. Charlene was stuck behind that veil until Ross lifted it.

  Protocol be praised!

  The music played on. People were staring. Ross was waiting up there in front, wearing black, looking peeved.

  Charlene’s grip on her father meant that her hold on her bouquet of white long-stemmed roses was forgotten. The bouquet slipped from her fingers. Christian saved it from hitting the floor. He looked right at the veil, to where Charlene’s eyes should be if she were human, and slid the flowers back into her snowy, gloved hand.

  Charlene turned back to the white carpet. One satin ballerina shoe inched forward, then the other, trailing yards of billowing gown.

  Veronica’s knees went weaker. The usual routine had been postponed, but the insect had sampled a whiff of her date’s eerily strong sexual presence. The Bride of Frankenstein had a knack for finding this kind of thing.