Many Bloody Returns

by Charlaine Harris

  That came comfortably close to the top of my breasts. Not what I’d intended, but…wow. Bonus.

  We sat there for a long second, and then Michael cleared his throat and sat back. “Satisfied?” He seemed to realize it was a trick question and didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll be back by dark. We’ll talk about the rent then. But for now, you should—” He looked up. His gaze reached the level of my chest, stopped, and then lowered again. The smile this time was directed at the guitar. “Put on a new shirt or something.”

  “Well, I would, but all my shirts are in my suitcase, getting molested by Brandon and his funboys.” I flipped a finger at the window, in case they were watching.

  “Get something out of my closet,” he said. I thought he was playing something from Coldplay’s catalog now, something soft and contemplative. “Sorry about the, uh, staring. I know you’ve had a tough night.”

  There was something so damn sweet about that, it made me want to cry. Again. I swallowed the impulse. “You don’t know the half of it,” I said.

  This time, when he looked up, his gaze actually made it to my face. And stayed there. “I’m guessing that means bad.”

  “Oh, whole new definitions of bad. But you don’t want to hear about that.”

  “You’d tell me if I was a friend, right? And not just some guy whose door you randomly knocked on in the middle of the night?”

  I thought about Jane, poor sweet Jane, my best and only real friend. Trent and Guy, who probably had been destined for nothing but still had been, for tonight at least, my buds. “I’m not so good for my friends,” I said. “Maybe we ought to just call you a really nice stranger.” I took a deep breath. “I lost three people tonight, and it was my fault.”

  He kept looking at me. Really looking. It was a little bit hot, and a little bit disconcerting. “Then would you talk to a really nice stranger about it? For—” He checked his watch. “Forty minutes? I need to leave, but I want you to be okay before I do.”

  It only took thirty minutes to tell him about the Life and Times of Me, actually. Michael didn’t say very much, and I felt so tired afterward that I hardly knew it when he got up and went into the kitchen. I must have dozed off a little, because when I woke up, he was kneeling next to my chair, and he had a chocolate brownie on a plate. With a semimelted pink candle sputtering away on top.

  “It’s a leftover,” he warned me. “It was crap in the first place, so I don’t know how good it is. But happy birthday, anyway. I promise you, things will get better.”

  I had news for him. They just had.

  When the sun came up, I’d have a whole new set of problems. Not the least of which would be finding a workplace not afraid to hire a girl with serious vampire relations issues and a wardrobe that leaned toward the macabre.

  But for now?

  I took a bite of brownie, smiled at my new housemate, and celebrated my freedom.

  The Witch and the Wicked

  Jeanne C. Stein

  Jeanne C. Stein is the author of the Anna Strong series, the first of which, The Becoming, was released in December 2006. The second book, Blood Drive, was published in July. She lives in Colorado, where, when not working on her novels, she edits a newsletter for a beer importer and takes kickboxing classes to stay in shape. She can be reached through her website, www.jeannestein.com.

  The idea came to Sophie during Jonathon Deveraux’s one hundred fiftieth birthday party.

  She was not there as a guest, of course. Witches are seldom invited to vampire functions, their magics dismissed as parlor tricks to amuse the masses. No, she was catering the event. Her business, Weird and Wonderful Catering (voted number one in the latest Supernatural Hot Ticket poll as the caterer for that special event), made her the only choice for a party of this scope and magnitude. For the moment, at least, her questionable heritage as a witch was forgotten.

  Sophie blew on the tip of her finger and muttered, “Extinguishé.”

  The small lick of flame sputtered and died. She waved her hand in the air in a vaguely distracted way, looking down at the cake and its many candles.

  “Damn vamps,” she said to no one in particular. Well, to no one at all, really, since she was alone in the room. Still, that didn’t stop her from rambling on. “Why did I agree to this? I almost burned my finger off lighting all those damned candles.”

  She turned from the table with a rustle of silk, her long burgundy skirt swirling around her legs. She wasn’t an old witch, as witches go. Only eighty years. Her back was still straight, her dark hair barely touched with gray. She didn’t look a day over forty, really. Good genes. And even better cosmetics, most of her own making.

  She blew again on her smarting fingertip. She ought to pursue that—marketing her own line of fine cosmetics—instead of this thankless occupation. Caterers were underpaid, overworked, and generally ignored. Unless something went wrong. Then they became the center of unwanted and often perilous attention.

  Especially with her unique clientele.

  The door to the kitchen swung open. “Are you ready with the cake, Sophie?”

  The question was asked in an eager, breathless way by a woman who looked twenty but whom Sophie suspected might be a little older, though certainly not by much. With vampires it was hard to tell. The woman standing in front of Sophie was confident, beautiful, and wife to a distinguished vampire. She was dressed to the nines in a designer gown with jewels that flashed at her neck and ears. Rumor had it that Mr. Deveraux turned her on their wedding night, and that was only six months ago. Now here she was, acting every bit the mistress of the manor.

  Sophie swallowed a wave of envy and said, “Yes, ma’am. Would you like me to bring it in?”

  “Oh, I want to do it.” The woman’s face glowed with anticipation. “Jonathon will be so surprised.”

  Sophie frowned. “You must be careful, Mrs. Deveraux,” she said. “There are one hundred fifty burning candles on this cake. If your dress brushes against even one of them—”

  Her concern was flicked away with the back of a bejeweled hand. “Don’t worry. I know how to be careful around fire. This is my surprise and I want to deliver it.”

  Sophie stepped back from the table. “As you wish.”

  The woman took her place behind a tea cart bearing the huge tower of a cake. Sophie held open the door, careful to keep her own dress and hair out of the path of the blazing birthday tribute. The air fairly shimmered from the heat and glare of the candles. Why a vampire, especially such an old one, wanted candles on his cake was a mystery to her. One spark and he would burst into flame like an old Christmas tree.

  Sophie hadn’t met Jonathon Deveraux, tonight’s guest of honor, but she had seen a picture of him, a portrait hanging over the fireplace, when she came to finalize the party arrangements. He was a tall, good-looking man who must have been turned in his thirties because his face was unlined, his hair dark and thick. That it was a contemporary portrait was borne out by his clothing, a casual shirt and linen slacks, and a backdrop of the stables here on the property. It was just an impression, the feeling that this was not a man who would have indulged in such a pretentious birthday display as one hundred fifty burning candles. No, Sophie thought, this must have been the idea of his vacuous new wife, too recently turned to know the danger.

  Oh, well. Sophie looked at the mountain of cake pans and utensils stacked in the sink. Not her problem. Time to clean up.

  She waved a hand. “Lavàto.”

  The dishes arranged and rearranged themselves, moving from a sink of soapy water to another of clear running water and then onto a rack to be dried by a gentle stream of warm air. From the rack, they floated to the proper shelves in the cupboard or into silverware drawers. All done in the whisk of a cat’s tail.

  For the first time this evening, Sophie could relax. The cake was done, the kitchen in order. She had nothing to do now but wait for the festivities to be over. In reality, a vampire party was the easiest of all supernatural functions to
cater. Vampires didn’t require food. But they did like to impress each other with flashy displays, like the birthday cake. She found her biggest challenge for a vampire party was coming up with novel ways to serve blood. Like real Bloody Marys (finding thirty women named Mary to donate blood was no easy feat!). Tonight she had gone to great lengths to find something really special—a case of vintage Rothschild taken from actual Rothschilds. She hoped the guest of honor appreciated the effort, since he was paying for it. But like most rich vampires, and their condescending wives, he would most likely take the gesture for granted along with the witch who provided it.

  Thankless. This job was thankless.

  Sophie took a seat on a stool and leaned her elbows on a granite countertop. She let her thoughts wander again to her favorite subject of late—starting her own cosmetics firm. She was facing the shiny surface of a chrome toaster and she scooted down to examine her reflection.

  Clear skin. Tiny wrinkles touching the corners of wide blue eyes. Generous mouth with none of the telltale crinkles that caused lipstick to smear and marked the lips of the middle-aged woman. She truly did not look her age. Not in the way of vampires who not only physically stopped the aging process but reversed it. But nearly as good. Her creams slowed it to a crawl. And her cosmetics transformed the plain into…She examined her features. Her mascara made pale lashes long and dark, and her blush gave cheeks the definition that nature hadn’t.

  She touched the tip of her nose. Nothing short of surgery would fix something like that, of course. But artfully applied foundation, dark at the sides of her nose and light at the tip, diminished the contour.

  She wasn’t beautiful by any means. But she was good at this. She could show others how to be good at it, too.

  She’d made a success of the catering business; why not try her hand at cosmetics?

  The screech and howl came simultaneously and Sophie jumped off the stool.

  Ye gods, she thought. The idiot has caught herself on fire.

  This was exactly what she feared might happen. Sophie knew in spite of her warnings to Mrs. Deveraux, she would be blamed for the accident.

  For a second, she considered fleeing. But that would be a waste of time. Mr. Deveraux knew his wife had hired Sophie to cater his party. Unless she planned to transport herself to an alternate universe, he would find her.

  She might as well face the music now. Teleportation would be a last resort. She listened as the din of the crowd gradually faded from shock and horror to mumbled condolences to the new widower. Sophie waited for the kitchen door to open and for the bereaved to storm in to exact his revenge.

  It took much longer than she anticipated. The crowd was slow to leave, evidently, and Mr. Deveraux in no hurry to show them out. This puzzled Sophie but again, the antics of vampires were a constant source of puzzlement to her. They never did what was expected or what decorum dictated. She guessed that’s what came from living hundreds of years and not being tied to the laws of god or man.

  Sophie began to relax. Obviously, Mr. Deveraux was not devastated by the loss of his wife. Perhaps he had grown tired of her already. After all, what could he have had in common with such a young woman? In the manner of adolescents today (for to Sophie, anyone under the age of thirty was an adolescent), she would neither know nor care anything about recent history, let alone events from her husband’s distant past.

  Sophie took the fact that Deveraux had not yet made an attempt on her life as a sign from the gods that it was indeed time to switch careers.

  When it became obvious that the party was proceeding, Sophie took a seat again at the counter. She pulled a small notebook from the pocket of her tunic and opened it. On the inside cover was clipped a pen which she pulled free. With a careful, precise hand, she started making notations. She thought a night cream would be a good introductory product. When women saw the results, they would naturally want something for the daytime, too. Following that, she would launch cosmetics: foundation, blushers, mascaras. All with the same miraculous base guaranteed to slow the ravages of age.

  Hmmmm. Ravishing. That might be an appropriate name for the line. A play on words. Ravaged to Ravishing. Voilà. A slogan.

  Sophie felt the excitement build. She would do this. While the catering business was basically a one-woman show, this would be different. Her lotions were made the old-fashioned way, by hand. She would need to find a suitable place to make the cosmetics in batches large enough to accommodate what was sure to be a huge demand. And there was packaging and marketing to consider. She knew a warlock in advertising. He could help her find the right people to handle—

  The kitchen door flew open. Sophie, caught unaware and deep in her own musings, nearly fell off the stool. She scrambled to regain her footing and steeled herself to meet Mr. Deveraux.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” she began, turning to face what would surely be her angry host.

  The words died on her lips. Mrs. Deveraux stood smiling at her from the doorway. “Not to worry, Sophie,” she said. “Mr. Deveraux had a long, full life. He went out in a blaze of glory befitting a vampire of his age and stature.”

  Sophie was too stunned to reply. How could a vampire as old as Mr. Deveraux let himself be caught on fire? Her candles were magic. One puff on one candle and the rest extinguished themselves. It was a safety feature of her own invention designed exclusively for vampires. The only danger would have come when the cake was presented.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Deveraux waved a hand. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. I have no intention of seeking retribution.” She bent her head and examined her carefully manicured fingernails. “It was entirely my fault. I tripped on the rug and the cart bumped Mr. Deveraux. When he turned around, poof. His jacket caught. It was an unfortunate accident.”

  She looked up at Sophie then, her own eyes tightening a little at the corners. “I’m sure you must be relieved to know I don’t hold you responsible in any way.”

  Sophie was smart enough to recognize the threat. She shrugged. “I am relieved, yes.”

  The bright smile returned. “Then please come and do a quick cleanup, will you? There is ash on the cake, but I think if you work your magic, you can re-frost it or something and we can enjoy it. After all, my guests and I have heard so much about your wonderful cakes. It would be a shame to throw this one away. Will you fix it? Please?”

  Sophie waved a hand, and a spatula flew from a drawer and into her grasp. She followed Mrs. Deveraux into the living room, barely drawing so much as a glance from anyone at the party. In fact, everyone seemed to have recovered quite nicely from the recent tragedy, thank you. The laughter and chatter and clink of glassware went on as if Sophie were here to clean up a small culinary accident instead of disposing of the host’s mortal remains.

  Sophie examined the cake. A dusting of ash did indeed cover one side, and a small mound of the stuff sparkled on the floor. Vampire dust was like diamond dust, hard and bright and the consistency of fine beach sand. Wouldn’t do to bite into it. She started to smooth dust and icing away from the base of the candles when Mrs. Deveraux stopped her with a butterfly touch to the arm.

  “Get rid of those candles, too, won’t you? It’s a gruesome reminder of—well, you know.”

  Sophie nodded. Yes, she did know. Mrs. Deveraux showed no more grief for her dearly departed than any of her guests. Maybe it was a good thing Sophie hadn’t met Mr. Deveraux. He must have been a thoroughly disagreeable individual to have his passing marked with such ambivalence.

  Sophie invoked a spell and the candles disappeared. It made patching the icing much easier. When she was finished with the cake, she muttered another spell and a small dustpan and whisk broom materialized. She scooped up the ash from the floor and the small mound of dust-embedded icing and, with a nod to Mrs. Deveraux, retreated with relief back to the kitchen.

  Sophie scraped the gritty icing into the garbage disposal. She stared at the sandy residue left spa
rkling in the dustpan. This was the first time anything like this had happened at one of her parties. She’d heard the stories of vampires accidentally immolating themselves through drunken or careless behavior. It happened more often than people realized, actually. Vampires took their immortality for granted and didn’t follow basic principles of common sense. Falling asleep with a lighted cigarette, for instance, was as fatal to vampires as humans.

  Sophie shook the remains of the late Mr. Deveraux into the palm of her hand and let him—it—sift through her fingers. The ash felt surprisingly silky to the touch. She thought of the portrait hanging over the fireplace. Mr. Deveraux died the second death on his one hundred fiftieth birthday, and yet he passed among humans as a thirty-year-old. Now that was the ultimate age defyer.

  She sat up straight. How did vampires do it? How did they remain physically ageless regardless of the passing of time?

  They drank blood, for one.

  Sophie’s brow wrinkled in concentration. She reviewed what she knew about vampire physiology. It wasn’t a lot. She did remember reading somewhere that the blood thing was to supply energy needed to replace what could no longer be derived from normal food sources. Vampires had all the internal organs of an ordinary human. They just no longer functioned, frozen in their bodies, Sophie guessed, to preserve the outward physical appearance of a normal human being.

  So was that what made them immortal? Organs that did not atrophy with age or disease? Was that what stopped the aging process?

  She had no idea. Nor did she have anyone she could ask. Witches and vampires avoided each other. She was an exception, as were other witches who supplied services that vampires were unable or unwilling to perform for themselves.

  She looked again at the ash, winking like starlight in the glare of the kitchen’s bright incandescence. This was the essence of a vampire.

  What would happen if she mixed some of the ash into her lotions?