This Vampire As

by Jackie Ivie

  He looked back down and gave her another bow. And then had to hitch his chausses up again. Now was not a good time to rue the fact that he’d foregone the jupon.

  “I am but a poor knight, m’lady. You should truly hold out for a prince.”

  “But once you marry me, you’d be a prince.”

  That was just his luck. She had temerity, looked pretty darling, and wasn’t lacking in wits. Wystan decided on another tack. Adventure. Excitement. He elevated his voice to show it.

  “You ever ride in a helicopter, Miss Carlotti?”

  “Lots of times. Why?”

  Well. That killed the adventurous, exciting part of it. “Because we’ve got a Euro-copter awaiting us.”

  “You don’t have a horse?”

  Wystan chuckled before he could prevent it. And then he shook his head ruefully. “Sadly...no. Apologies.”

  “I’ll buy you one.”

  “Ah. My thanks. But I do already have one. He’s...a bit under the weather at the moment.”

  ...and six feet of earth.

  “My daddy is very rich.”

  This was getting problematical. Wystan didn’t deal with women or problems very well. And nobody had said a word about just how precocious Miss Carlotti could be. He had her wrapped securely in a blanket and tucked beneath his arm before she said another word. And then they swooped out the window.

  Moments later he was bent over, ignoring how his chausses sagged, displaying a good section of his lower back to the night air, in order to deposit his bundle in a back seat. He strapped her in. And then he opened the top of the blanket, making sure she’d survived the journey. Dark eyes, set in spectacular lashes surveyed him for a moment before she smiled.

  Buggers.

  His situation had not improved. Wystan turned toward the pilot. VAL had assigned Vaughn for this hit. The fellow was their best. Or so he claimed. He’d also had a recent run-in with some sort of finger ripping apparatus. Wystan had noticed the fake skin on most of his fingertips when they’d met. It didn’t hamper his flying skill. Vaughn gave him a salute from the pilot seat. Wystan frowned.

  “Looks like everything went okay. And in less than twenty minutes. Wow. You guys never fail to amaze. I didn’t have time to finish my coffee.”

  “Fire it up. You’ve got a rendezvous with some very concerned parents.”

  “Take a seat and strap in first. Oh. Never mind. You’re a vampire. Do whatever you want.”

  The engine started up. A tremor went through the enclosure. The blades started rotating, sending more air onto his backside. Good thing he was immune from tactile sensation. He couldn’t conquer the flush, however.

  “Can you handle Miss Carlotti?” Wystan turned his head to ask.

  “Solo? Oh, hell no. Get in. Your ticket is for two tonight.”

  Damn.

  Wystan pulled his chausses to his waist, slid into his seat, and closed the door. Then he fished a slim-phone from the seat pocket before him. He didn’t strap in. He might need to bail. He pressed the button with the “6” on it. He didn’t have to press the “call” button. These phones were coded just for him. Good thing. Wystan wasn’t a fan of technology.

  “VAL Headquarters. Nigel speaking. Who’s calling please?”

  “Is Akron in?”

  “Oh. Hi there, Sir Galahad. Nice of you to check in.”

  “Akron?”

  “Geez. Not one of you assassins has a bent toward small talk. Exchanging witty repartee. I’m telling you, it’s a wasted art. Completely wasted. Hold your pants up, bud. I’m connecting you.”

  Wystan pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it. It was just Nigel’s terminology, but it was too accurate by far. But loose tights were the least of his troubles. Akron’s voice came through the phone next.

  “De Crecy? You there?”

  “Sir!” Wystan fumbled with the phone.

  “So. Speak up.”

  “I have a small problem.”

  “Checking. Nothing reportable from Cornwall this evening. Nothing from Rockcliffe Castle. Nothing about murder and mayhem. Actually...there’s nothing newsworthy coming in from anywhere on the coast. I suppose you left a mess. Is that it?”

  “Well...there were fourteen of them. And they were armed.”

  “So be it. I’ll send a 4D Team. Send the Yellow one, Nigel. They have the most finesse. Ownership of Rockcliffe Castle might be in dispute, and it’s already a ruin...but I rather like it.”

  “That’s not why I called.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s...Miss Carlotti.”

  “She’s safe?”

  Odd. Akron made it sound as if the answer better be affirmative or someone was perishing. And doing it in a horrid fashion.

  “Of course. She’s right beside me. Bundled in blankets. Strapped into a seat. About forty minutes from touch-down.”

  “And this is a problem?”

  “It’s not that kind of problem.”

  “This should be good. Nigel? You listening?”

  “Oh, please sir. As if I’d forego hearing this. Of course I’m listening.”

  “You have eight seconds left, de Crecy. Want to call back?”

  Wystan slapped the phone closed against his thigh. He toyed with pitching it out the window before placing it back in the seat pocket.

  “Are you...in trouble?”

  Miss Carlotti asked it from beside him. Wystan slid a glance toward her. She’d intersected her query with a yawn. That was even cute. She was the epitome of cute. Why...if cuteness had a ranking of one to ten, she was a twelve.

  “Not really,” he replied.

  “Oh. Good.”

  She just sat there, regarding him with sleepy eyes. If he was really lucky, she might go to sleep. And when she woke she’d be in the arms of her loving family, and all of this would be a forgotten.

  Maybe.

  What was he thinking? He wasn’t that lucky.

  He pulled out another phone, pressed “6” again, and turned slightly, putting a shoulder toward her. All the phones assigned to him tonight were set to the same number. This time it didn’t even ring before Akron was talking.

  “Well, Nigel? What did they say? Excellent. Oh. Hello again, de Crecy. We just sent the alert to Miss Carlotti’s parents. Needless to say, they’re thrilled. They can’t wait to meet you and thank you in person.”

  “Not a good plan, sir. I need to disappear. Fade from memory, if you will. Vaughn can take the credit.”

  “Just what is going on over there?”

  “It’s Miss Carlotti. She, uh...she wants to marry me.”

  Nigel started laughing first. It echoed through the speaker. Wystan was frowning before Akron’s booming laugh came through, loud enough it drowned out the sound of the rotating blades.

  “It’s not amusing,” Wystan informed them when he could be heard again.

  “Forgive us, de Crecy. I thought it was something serious.”

  “It is serious.”

  “Since this happens every time you get spotted, I would think you’d be used to it. Or, have a game plan in place.”

  “Or maybe, ask for an assist,” Nigel added. “Like from me.”

  “She’s six years old,” Wystan informed them.

  “She’ll grow.”

  “Yes. I know. She has already informed me of that fact,” Wystan replied.

  Both men chuckled again. Wystan set his jaw and waited.

  “You know, you might wish to consider toning down some of the valiant knight routine. It might make you a little less appealing.”

  “I’d like some more immediate help, sir.”

  “Very well, de Crecy. Bail before you land. I’ll alert Vaughn to his new role as hero. What is it now, Nigel?”

  Wystan couldn’t hear what Nigel said. All he heard was Akron’s reply.

  “Not good enough. Lizbeth is not trained. Yes, Wystan de Crecy has always had women trouble. No. I don’t think it will rub off.”

  Wystan ended
the call. They called it women trouble? He called it a nuisance, and a big one at that. All he wanted was—

  Damn everything!

  He’d forgotten his hauberk back at Rockcliffe. His shoulders sagged slightly. He supposed he could divert back and fetch it. It was out of the way. His estate was in the borderlands between England and Wales, the area called the Marche. Returning for his chain would cost hours and he’d just lost three of them. He’d planned on drafting the helicopter for the ride to his home. That was out. He’d have to take a car.

  The helicopter started its descent. A glance showed Miss Carlotti asleep beside him. She was even cuter in that mode, he decided. A glance the other direction showed all kinds of lights. He could see a mass of people below. Journalist type people. With cameras. Wystan jerked the handle of the door open and slid out. He refastened the door, and then dropped out of sight. Vaughn hadn’t even noticed.

  He didn’t need the hauberk. He had others. Historians could have a field day with it when the crime unit released it. All he needed was to be home. He could almost feel the solitude. The solid stone slab he rested atop. Sense the aura of quietude away from bothersome females and the complications that ensued from any contact. He wanted his crypt.

  It seemed hours later when he finally closed in on it.

  Wystan stopped for a bit at one side of his gatehouse. Had he any animation, his chest would have swelled with pride. The entire Crecy estate was on display in the silvered moonlight. It was magnificent. Orderly. Structured. Registered in any number of history books. But it was earlier than he’d projected. It didn’t appear to be much past midnight. He supposed he could draft his driver into one more trip...

  And just then, the strangest rumble came through the air, lifting strands of his hair and brushing across his exposed skin.

  Oh. Bother.

  He’d forgotten. He’d agreed to host a Winter Renaissance Faire. An elderly woman had cornered him in his study several months ago. It had been a dark, dreary day. She’d found him awake and restless. She’d asserted her way into his presence. Hounded him. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. And she’d shown way too much leg for his taste. He’d agreed to allow a Faire on the parade grounds of Crecy Castle mainly to get rid of her. He’d been afraid to continue the conversation.

  A knee-high carpet of mist rose from the ground, enveloping his lower legs. It wet the armor of his shin guards and dampened his chausses to mid-thigh. That’s what came of a night with a full moon and higher-than-normal temperatures. Wystan skimmed the ground, skirting the outer wall, sticking to shadows, avoiding detection. He went the long way around, avoiding the parade grounds where they’d set up their tents. The graveyard was on the opposite end of the inner bailey. It would be deserted, as always. Nobody ever went there.

  Another wave of air assailed him, this time knocking him off his feet. He flew several feet before slamming against the stone of his barbican wall.

  What the hell?

  Wystan spun, sword already pulled, and head lowered. There wasn’t anyone in sight. No Hunters. Nothing. But something was odd. Something in the air. A scent. A feeling. An awakening. And he actually felt a chill.

  He felt it!

  His eyes went wide as he looked down, watching real gooseflesh form on his chest and lower belly. He could feel temperature? Oh, sweet prophecy! If what he suspected was true, he was the luckiest dead man in existence. He grasped his sword handle tighter and actually felt the metal hilt warping against his fingers. It was true! All of it. Everything he’d been told.

  He had a mate.

  She was in his sphere.

  All he had to do was find her.

  He hitched up his now thoroughly-dampened chausses and straightened his pauldron. And then he was stalking across the lists, intent on attending the Crecy Castle Winter Renaissance Faire. He didn’t think to change into more modest apparel. He didn’t ponder consequences. He had a mate. She was in that mass of people somewhere. And he had to find her.

  Thank goodness that old lady had talked him into this.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Twelve forty a.m. Ten minutes late. You don’t think he got spooked, do you?”

  Rachel Berne returned to scanning the crowd. Her target had looked to be in the forty to forty-five age range. Executive-looking. Dark-haired with a receding hairline. Silver-tipped temples. Dark-eyed.

  And he had a taste for pedophilia.

  It wasn’t much to go on, and was probably false. Just like her on-line identity as Jamie, a nine-year-old boy who’d just escaped from another horrible foster home. Her pedophile had sent a fuzzy picture last week – before she found out he was in England. Well. Wherever he was hiding, she was finding him. She didn’t care how far she had to go. She’d spent too much time on this guy to let him wriggle away.

  Besides, Britain was only a plane flight away. And, according to the psychologist report, she needed a vacation from chasing this particular sexual predator, anyway. Nobody seemed to notice that her ex-partner and friend, Eleanor Munson, took on the assignment in Rachel’s place. Hell. Nobody had even asked.

  Hmm...

  According to the pedophile’s picture, he was in good shape. Fairly nice looking. He claimed to be six foot in height. Three inches taller than her. He should be easy to spot. If he hadn’t been yanking her chain with a dummy description. But even if he’d given her a hook, line, and sinker with his online personae, one thing was certain. He would be searching the crowd, too. Unlike her, however, he’d probably be more comfortably dressed.

  Rachel didn’t know anything about Renaissance Faire attire, but there seemed to be a lot of breast flesh on display. Much more than necessary – but that also included her. That’s what happened when she crammed her Double D’s into a tight square bodice, and then slapped on a ribcage-smashing corset as outerwear. It also meant she had to keep her weapons in her skirt pockets or on a thigh. Her cuffs were in a pocket. The pocketknife was in another. The taser was in a thigh holster. She’d have to reach through the hole she’d cut in one skirt pocket to get to it. That would cost precious seconds. Good thing she had a third-degree black belt in Karate. A stunner would be the least of the perp’s problems.

  She’d rather have a bra-holster like usual. She’d also like to have her Walther PPK. But, no. Not this trip. This was the UK. No guns. And she wasn’t even supposed to here. Besides, this bodice was barely large enough for her bosom. She yanked a bit on the ruffle edge framing her cleavage, and then moved to rearrange her sleeve back over her wristwatch. She did it without looking.

  “Damn it, Berne. We were told. Authentic attire.”

  “Oh. Please.” Rachel tilted her head toward her companion then had to push a mass of gauze off her shoulder so it could return to trailing down her back. That amount of material was just nonsense, as was the cone atop her head where the veil was hooked. The headdress was called a hennin. It made her top-heavy and ungainly if she moved too quickly. She didn’t have to guess. She knew. The one time she’d tried to turn around normally, she’d almost toppled over, much to the amusement of everyone in the vicinity at the time. “I’m wearing a corset, five hundred yards of material, really tight ankle boots that button, something skimpy called a chemise...and you’re complaining about a wristwatch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad. I need it.”

  “You want the time, I’ll check in with the guys.”

  “Not on your life. They’re still whistling and making jokes over my outfit. Jerks. It must be a male thing: How to be a jerk. Instructions granted upon birth. Even back in the middle ages.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Would a woman have designed this attire? Honest opinion, Munson. If a woman was involved, would she truly design tons and tons of skirt and no underwear? Come on. We both know she’d have crafted a panties and a bra.”

  “Oh. They had bras. I read about it. One was just discovered in a castle...I think in Austria. It had been wadded into a wall fo
r insulation or something. Sixteenth century. Seventeenth, maybe. I didn’t pay that much attention.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you say so?”

  “It wouldn’t help you, Berne. Sorry. It didn’t have underwire. Besides, I think it’s a small cup. Not your size. And before you bitch some more, let me say, I’m envious. I’d guess half the women here are having the same issue.”

  Rachel ignored most of that. There was a six foot tall man to her right. Thirties. He was dressed as a musketeer with a wig and mustache combo that screamed fakery. He wasn’t searching for much. He appeared to be very happy chatting up two female, steam-punk aficionados, neither of whom looked much under her age. Rachel checked her watch again.

  Beside her, Officer Eleanor Munson cleared her throat. Rachel looked back down at her.

  “Give it a rest, okay? It’s a wristwatch. I’ve seen more than a dozen cell phones. Not all of this lighting is fire-based, and that last vendor even had an electric heater going in his tent.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It was warm.”

  “He was hawking leather goods. They might keep it warm.”

  “He also had an extension cord tucked along the tent edge. Or perhaps you didn’t notice. And...will you look there? If my senses do not deceive, that is a coffee stand.”

  “Where?”

  “Just beyond the black striped tent. Hard to miss. Can’t you hear that espresso machine?” Rachel snickered. “Real authentic, medieval stuff, there. You want a latte? I’ll buy.”

  “Maybe we should go back to the mead hall.”

  “We arranged to meet near the south entrance.” Rachel checked her watch again. Twelve forty-five. He was fifteen minutes late. But maybe the perp didn’t know his compass directions. There were two other entrances. All being watched. She turned around in a large circular fashion. Beside her, Munson followed suit.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere. We’re strolling. Chatting with folks. Trying to look authentic. You know, doing medieval woman stuff. Oh, hey. Look at this get-up. I didn’t think they had spandex tights and thigh-high, hooker boots back then. I’m going to take a pass on whether or not they wore peplum jackets in green satin with black bows. They probably had those.”