THE VAMPIRE’S HEIR
ELLERY ST. JAMES
Copyright © 2019
This work may not be used in part of in full without written permission from Ellery St. James.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER ONE
I WAS AT work when I first saw The Bookstore Guy.
That’s what I called him in my head—The Bookstore Guy. Not very original, I guess, but it’s what stuck. Because he was THE guy. The one that my mind automatically jumped to when people asked if I liked anyone, if I had a crush, if I knew any hot guys, ever since that first moment that our eyes locked. Which, considering I didn’t even know his name, was perhaps a little pathetic.
But whatever.
Also, timeout for a second. I have never been the kind of person to go weak-kneed and giddy at the sight of a boy. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with that, but it just isn’t me.
I first saw him at the used bookstore where I worked—a little place called Yellow Brick Road that is pretty much just a maze of dusty shelves and narrow, book-crammed aisles that customers wandered like a labyrinth. I was stocking an already precariously-piled bookshelf with novels from a box of books that had just been donated by a woman whose mother had died and left a house full of vintage romances. The door jingled to announce the entrance of a customer, and I absently called out, “Welcome to Yellow Brick Road, may your journey take you to the perfect book,” which was what we were supposed to say whenever someone came in.
At the moment I spoke, the bookshelf groaned. Too many books, maybe, or perhaps it was just old. Everything in the bookstore was old, second-hand, worn out. The top shelf made a popping sound, and an avalanche of books tumbled toward my astonished head.
A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the way before I was struck, and the books fell to the floor at my feet.
“Oh,” I said, stunned. “That would have been a terrible way to go—death by romance novel.”
I glanced up, expecting to see an old man with a cardigan and bifocals, or a hipster chick wearing tights with avocados on them and a shirt with a peter pan collar. The usual type of customer we got.
Instead, my eyes locked with a pair of lightning-blue eyes.
He was standing still, staring at me as if he were as startled as I were. A shiver went through my whole body as if I’d just brushed against an electric current. He was pale-skinned, with dark, wavy hair that was almost black, wearing a coat and scarf that he had begun to unwind from around his throat before he’d rushed over to pull me out of the way of the book avalanche. It was raining outside, and droplets of water clung to his jaw and eyelashes and to the ends of his hair.
He was so beautiful I almost staggered. There was an animal magnetism to him, and my whole body, from scalp to toes, tightened in response. I realized I was staring, mouth open, book dangling in my hand.
He spoke. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
He nodded. He looked shaken, but he only said, “I’m looking for a book.”
The words jumped out of my mouth. I barely knew what I was saying. I gestured stupidly at the floor and the dozens of books lying there. “I think we have a couple of those in stock.” Sarcasm. I immediately wanted to smack myself.
A corner of his mouth lifted briefly in a hint of a smile, but his eyes—which had never left mine—were serious. His stare was slicing through me, and it was taking my breath away. Then he glanced around the room, and I could breathe again. I sternly told myself to pull it together. Hot guys came into the store all the time, and this was ridiculous. Was I ovulating or something? Didn’t girls get hornier when they were ovulating? Was that what was happening?
Because I was feeling like a girl with her first crush.
“What book?” I asked after another silence in which it felt like I stared at him for longer than was socially acceptable.
“Being and Nothingness by Jean-Paul Sartre,” he answered, pronouncing the name like he spoke French fluently. He looked back at me now, and the force of his gaze once again made me feel like I was caught in headlights.
“Philosophy is at the end of that row,” I said, pointing. My hand trembled.
His eyes didn’t leave my face. He seemed curious.
We stood like that for another moment. Time stretched, and I cast about in my mind for something to say. It seemed important to say something.
Then he stepped away toward the aisle I’d indicated, leaving me feeling dizzy. I pressed a hand to my head and exhaled before I glanced down at the box of books. I felt almost shaken.
I could hear his footsteps as he walked the aisle and the soft rustle of pages as he took down one book and then another before putting them back. I tried to refocus on my task, but I was acutely aware of the presence of this shiver-inducing customer. This boy with the eyes like an arctic sea and a smile that could cut glass.
I moved to the end of the row to shelve the last of the books, and then he was at my shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he said.
I turned, but my reply died in my throat at how close he was. The animal magnetism shimmered again, and I felt light-headed, and I saw his throat move as if he felt it too.
“I was wondering if these are all you have?” He held up two books by Sartre, neither of which was the one he’d mentioned.
“I’ll have to check in the back,” I said faintly.
Why was I being such a girlish wreck? I blushed at my reaction, and his pupils widened alarmingly. Something about that made me stumble, and I put out a hand to catch myself against the bookshelf behind me. He grabbed my elbow to steady me, and we were suddenly very close, our faces inches apart, and a tingle of something dangerous and delicious swept over me.
“I almost knocked over another avalanche of books,” I said, a nervous cough of laughter forcing its way out of my throat. “I—”
“I’m very sorry,” he interrupted, looking angry, and then he was gone. I heard the door jingle as he left, and I was alone, breathing hard, wondering what the hell had just happened.
~
I saw The Bookstore Guy again a week later. This time, when the bell above the door jingled to announce his arrival, I was stocking shelves again, and another coworker was at the register. I was barely paying attention when I heard his voice ask smoothly if we had gotten those books he’d ordered in yet?
I paused, the book in my hand trembling as I peeked between two cookbooks and saw him standing at the front of the store, his hands in his pockets, his dark hair curling over his forehead, those impossibly blue eyes scanning the room as if looking for something.
Like he was looking for me.
He was not looking for me, I told myself firmly, because that’s exactly what my heart giddily decided, and it was neither realistic nor the type of person I imagined myself to be. I was a realist. I didn’t swoon giddily over being noticed by random guys. Okay, so he wasn’t a random guy. He was The Bookstore Guy. And he was back in my bookstore.
I took a steadying breath to calm myself once more, and then I debated what to do. Stay back in
the aisle, admire him from afar like a creeper, and blush at my ridiculousness? Or find some reason to check the register and see if he remembered me, spoke to me?
I fully realized I was being dumb, and I was okay with that.
I mean, it was The Bookstore Guy. I’d had three dreams about him since I’d first seen him. My subconscious clearly didn’t think we were finished yet.
While I debated, I sneaked another glance at him through the bookshelf. He stood wrapped in his black woolen peacoat, although the day was a little warm, with a scarf around his throat and a hat pulled down over his dark, curling hair. Restless energy crackled in his movements, and I felt it prickle across my skin too.
Go to the register? Stay where I was?
I decided to leave it up to fate. I’d return my book cart to the back room, and if he were still there when I returned, I’d approach the register.
I shelved the rest of the books quickly and headed for the back.
And promptly collided with The Bookstore Guy in the next aisle.
Literally collided. My whole body smashed against him, and he reached out a hand to steady me, his fingers touching my arm, skin against skin, and then he looked at me, and his face darkened into what was best described as a disgusted scowl as he released me and stepped away. Yes, disgusted. As if I had just vomited on his shoes.
He said sharply, “You again.”
So, he did remember me. And apparently, not with fondness.
I felt my face flush red, and he drew back almost with alarm.
I didn’t understand, but it didn’t feel good to have an object of admittedly silly affection act like I was a roach on the floor in front of him.
“Excuse me,” I stammered, and then I brushed past him for the back, where I stood for ten minutes blinking at myself in the bathroom mirror with a crack in it, feeling embarrassed and crestfallen and a little bit stupid.
I wasn’t ugly, not that I even considered that a major point of what I wanted a guy to find interesting about me. I wasn’t wearing any of my weirdest T-shirts, and I didn’t have my nose ring anymore. My hair looked clean. What had he been so repelled by? Was I wafting some kind of stalkerish aura? Did he think I was a crazy person somehow?
I shook my head, took a deep breath, and, after confirming he was gone, went back to my tasks. I had bigger problems than a cute guy thinking I was dumb.
But it still stung.
CHAPTER TWO
THE NIGHT AFTER The Bookstore Guy ran into me the second time, I dreamed that our family had been given a miracle, and my mother’s addiction had been magically healed.
I woke up happy, thanks to the dream. The glow lingered while I got dressed, brushed my purple-streaked hair, and brushed on enough makeup to cover the scar that stretched across my left cheek below my eye. I hummed as I put on my favorite outfit—striped hipster underwear with stars, black bra with no underwire, a faded black T-shirt emblazoned with the name of my favorite TV show, Infinity Zero, and purple moto leggings—and as I grabbed my toothbrush and deodorant off the nightstand as I headed for the bathroom. I kept both in my bedroom, because more than once, I’d caught one of my mom’s friends high and “freshening themselves up” with my toiletries in our condo’s sole bathroom. Gross. Call me finicky, but I don’t care to share my deodorant with a bunch of drunk, sweaty strangers’ pits.
Normally, this was the part of the routine where I banged my fist on Lucy’s door and called for her to get up so we wouldn’t be late for school, but Lucy was with her dad for their once-a-year trip out of town for “daddy-daughter bonding time.” I swear that guy was only doing it because every year, he accumulated guilt for not bothering to call, let alone come and visit. I kept that opinion to myself, though, because she always got so damn excited. I didn’t want to ruin that.
My mom was asleep, and I left her alone. Things were better that way.
I shuffled to the kitchen, the linoleum cold under my bare feet. It was October, and the nights were chilly now. Mail lay in a pile at the door, put through the slot by our landlady, no doubt, and I picked up the letters and sorted them on the counter one by one. Bills, bills, bill, and oh, did I mention bills?
One letter caught my eye. It was from Lucy’s special disability insurance that she qualified for because of how poor we were. I ripped the envelope open with shaking hands.
The paper said a bunch of stuff about the request for treatment I’d put in, but one word jumped out at me from the page.
Denied.
They’d denied the need for Lucy’s treatment.
Again.
I let the paper drop to the counter as I exhaled. I’d joked to my friend Nina the other day that maybe I should take up camgirling in Infinity Zero costumes just so my sister could get the treatment she needed. Maybe I needed to look into it.
I heard a footstep in the living room and figured home had gotten up. It was early for her to be awake. I dashed the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand and fixed my expression into something neutral as I grabbed a box of cereal from the cabinet. “Mom,” I said casually, eying the bill still sitting on the counter, “Is there any extra money this month?”
Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—there was a little extra. If she was in a good mood, I might be able to convince her to give it to me. And I might be able to pay some of the utilities before we got them shut off.
Mom didn’t answer.
I poured the cereal into a bowl and called to her again above the ringing sound of flakes hitting ceramic. “Mom? Are you up?”
There was a soft shuffling sound. She was definitely out there.
I stepped into the doorway to make myself heard. I was going to force her to give me the money or tell me to my face that she couldn’t.
And there, standing in the middle of my decrepit living room, with its broken blinds and ugly plaid couch with the torn cushion and the stains on the arms, was a man.
“Don’t scream,” he said.
I wasn’t a screamer. I was a freezer. And I froze, my hands hovering by my sides, my heart stuttering and then beating triple-time, pushing blood through my veins and readying me to run or fight. I was used to pretending to be calm, and I did so now. Freaking out might make things worse at this point. One of my mom’s friends had found himself in my bedroom once, confused and friendly rather than predatory. I’d talked him out into the hall and then locked the door behind him.
I could do that again.
“How’d you get in here?” I asked, as if I were just making conversation, acting confused. I took him in quick, taking stock of his size and probably strength. He was slender, a little gaunt, but not emaciated. He had dark hair and shrewd, cutting eyes. When he smiled at me, he had all his teeth, and they were straight and white. He didn’t look like a drug user, but some people don’t.
“Your mother invited me in a few days ago,” he said, which wasn’t exactly an answer. He obviously hadn’t been hanging out in our house for several days.
“Mom’s asleep,” I said carefully. “You should come back later when she’s awake.” I took a casual step toward the counter, where I saw her phone was sitting near the sink.
If necessary, I was calling the police.
The man tracked my movement with his eyes. He made me think of a hawk watching a mouse. He smiled in a way that looked like he’d never really been happy, exactly, and he was only mimicking something he’d seen other people do. He had an energy to him that didn’t match the usual types Mom ended up with. He seemed supremely confident, but not in an arrogant way.
“You aren’t going to call the police,” he said in a friendly way. Almost like I was a little kid about to do something dangerous, or a dog that he was trying to keep from biting him. A careful kind of friendly. Relaxed, but watchful.
“No? And why not? Do I know you?” I responded, matching his tone with mine. We were just two people having a friendly conversation on this Friday morning. Nothing alarming. Nothing to get upset about. Certainly nothing
for this strange man to get upset about.
I didn’t smile at him, because smiles can look like invitations, but I didn’t do anything to make him think I saw him as a threat either. Body language mattered that way. I wanted him to see that I wasn’t scared. That I knew how to handle myself and that I wasn’t an easy target if he was looking for someone to victimize.
“Very good,” the man said softly, almost to himself. “You have poise.”
I’d heard weirder from some of the people Mom invited here in the past, the same kind of people who tried to use my Deodorant and toothbrush.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, trying to think through my options. If I could convince him that he wanted to leave the house… “There is this fantastic breakfast place just down the street called Zenny’s. I think it used to be a Denny’s and whoever bought the building didn’t want to replace the sign. Ask for the blueberry pancakes. They’re my favorite.”
“I am not hungry at present,” the man said. He paused. “My name is Victor.”
“Victor what?” I asked. I wanted a full name if I needed one later to give to the police.
“My surname is Branaugh, but that isn’t something that matters.” He waved his hand, graceful as a male ballerina. Something about him made me think of animals. Hawks. Swans. Lizards. I couldn’t quite pin down what it was, this sense I was getting from him. But it had me tingling with awareness.
Since he wasn’t rising to the bait of gently shooing him out, I’d have to resort to bolder methods. Like direct questions.
“Why are you standing in my living room, Victor Branaugh?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, and then he laughed. “Because, my child, it’s time.”
“Time for what?” I asked. I’d had enough conversations with rambling, drugged up people to know that some of them just wanted to chat for a while. My fingers, meanwhile, closed over my mom’s phone. We didn’t have a working landline, of course. That was just another bill we couldn’t pay.
“Time to meet you,” he said, and showed his teeth in a smile.
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