by Dean James
COPYRIGHT
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Baked to Death
Copyright © 2005 by Dean James
ISBN: 9781625178466
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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DEDICATION
For Nancy Yost with thanks for a decade of friendship and hard work.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, thanks to my esteemed editor, John Scognamiglio, and the team at Kensington for all they do so well; second, thanks to Julie Wray Herman and Patricia R. Orr for continuing to read each work-in- progress and offering sage advice; third, to Deborah Howell Patterson, RJPh., fellow member of the Class of ’77, for help with matters pharmacological; and finally, to Tejas Englesmith for constant support and encouragement.
CHAPTER ONE
I haven’t been dead all that long, but I’m getting used to it.
In the old days, being a vampire was quite glamorous (just think of Frank Langella as Dracula, and you’ll get my drift), but it was also much more dangerous. True, we could shape-shift—though who in his right mind would want to be a bat, I don’t know. We were also more likely to end up with a wooden stake through the heart or dragged from our resting places into the noonday sun to be fried into nothingness.
When taking my morning dose, a dandy little pill that gives me the nourishment I need without my ever having to drink blood from a living creature, I often wax philosophical about being a vampire. A couple of these pills every day, and I can pass for a live person.
I can even go out in the sun, provided I’m careful about overexposure to it. This was going to be my first full summer in England since I had taken up residence in Laurel Cottage in the Bedfordshire village of Snupperton Mumsley, and I might have to admit to an allergy to the sun to explain my preference for staying inside during a glorious English summer. Though I had been involved in various village doings over the past nine months, I wasn’t ready for a round of garden parties and fetes of the kind that seem endemic to English villages in the summer. Well, I would find some graceful way to do my own thing. After all, we writers are known to be peculiar.
These musings came back to me in force barely half an hour later when my handsome assistant, Giles Blitherington, arrived to begin the day’s work and offered me the latest news from Blitherington Hall. In actuality, he was Sir Giles Blitherington, but despite his aristocratic look and manner, he generally eschewed use of his title, much to the annoyance of his mother, Lady Prunella. After a hurried greeting, Giles was most impatient to share with me his latest worry.
From behind my desk I regarded Giles with sympathy. “What is the problem now, Giles?”
Giles dropped into the chair across the desk from me. “Oh, Simon, it’s this silly medieval ‘faire’ that’s going to be held next week.”
I had seen the advertisements for the faire around the village, but I hadn’t taken much notice of them. I couldn’t see the point in people attempting to recreate life in medieval England, just for the sake of amusement and, more to the point, commerce. Evidently the faire would be host to a number of small businesses that offered all kinds of faux-medieval products: clothing, jewelry, armor, food, and the like. I intended to steer well clear of it.
“What has that to do with you, Giles?” I asked. “I should think you can avoid it completely, so why worry about it?”
“Didn’t you pay any attention to where the bally thing is being held, Simon?” Giles said. “It’s practically in our back garden at Blitherington Hall, and Mummy is beside herself. She thinks all these faire types will be running all over our grounds and making quite a mess.”
“No, Giles, I hadn’t paid much attention to the ‘bally’ thing, as you call it,” I said, a trifle waspishly. “If so-called adults want to run around playing dress-up, it’s nothing to do with me. But, frankly, I shouldn’t think Lady Prunella has anything to worry about.” I paused, frowning. “How did they end up on that land anyway? Doesn’t it belong to the manor?”
Giles sighed. “It did, until about a year ago. About that time we desperately needed to raise some cash to do some electrical work at Blitherington Hall. A neighboring landowner had made an offer several times for the land, and finally Mummy and I decided we had no choice but to sell it.”
“Pardon me, Giles,” I said, “but I still don’t quite see the problem.”
“The problem, Simon,” Giles said, becoming exasperated with me, “is Murdo Millbank, the man who bought the land. He’s a businessman from London who rather fancies being a gentleman farmer, or so he said, in the beginning. He told us he intended to keep it as a meadow. He wanted to put some cows on it.”
“And I take it his plans have changed?”
“Oh, yes, they’ve changed.” Giles almost spit out the words. “This medieval faire is just the beginning. He kept the meadow as it was until recently, and Mummy and I thought everything would be fine. Now we’re told that, after this medieval gathering, he’s rented the land out to some music producer, and there’s going to be an enormous three-day rock festival in August! ”
“Ah,” I said. “Now I can see your problem. The folk at the medieval faire might be fairly law-abiding, but if a bunch of rowdy fans are at a rock festival nearby, who knows what might happen.”
Giles nodded unhappily. “The whole village will be in an uproar, Simon, and they’ll blame Mummy and me because we sold the land to that lying prat.” He threw his hands up. “And it’s not as if Mummy needs to annoy the village any more than she already does.”
I forbore to comment on that last statement. Lady Prunella was a perpetual thorn in the side of the village. She insisted on playing Lady of the Manor because she saw it as her natural role—never mind that the villagers resented her heavy-handed way of interfering in things that were really none of her business.
“It could all be rather frightful, Giles,” I said, “but I can’t see that there’s anything you can do about it. You can’t buy the land back, certainly.”
“No, of course we can’t,” Giles replied. “But Mummy has already indulged in one screaming match with Millbank, and I shudder to think what will happen when the rock festival takes place.”
I had to make an effort not to smile. The dear boy had a point. His mother had developed a penchant for getting herself into difficult situations. “Then I suppose we shall just have to keep her out of mischief.”
“Far easier said than done, Simon,” Giles muttered.
“We shall see, Giles, we shall see,” I said, trying to comfort him. I decided it was time to shift the subject a bit. “Tell me what you know about this group putting on the medieval faire. Is it the Society for Creative Anachronism, perhaps?” I was familiar with this particular group, which has a good-sized membership in America, but I didn’t know whether they had any presence in England.
“No,” Giles said. “They call themselves Gesta Angtiae Antiquae.” He pronounced the Latin name with a frown.
“The Deeds of Ancient England,” I translated. “It certainly sounds much better in Latin
, doesn’t it?”
Giles shrugged. “The whole thing sounds bloody silly, if you ask me. Why sane adults want to sport themselves in medieval garb and pretend not to have heard of bathing once a month, let alone once a day, is beyond me.”
“Tsk, tsk, Giles,” I said mildly, though I was actually rather annoyed. “Don’t tell me you too have fallen for that old canard that no one in the Middle Ages ever took a bath. Surely you know better than that.” Giles opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “And don’t tell me that ‘everyone knows’ that medieval people were filthy, because it just isn’t so. Soap was invented in the so-called Dark Ages—a term that I heartily detest, if you’ll remember. People washed their hands before and after meals, and most towns of any decent size had bathhouses.
“I suppose,” I continued, warming to my theme, “people got the ridiculous notion that medieval folk didn’t bathe from the fact that going without bathing was one of the penances people took on to atone for their sins.”
Laughing immoderately, Giles held up a hand in submission, and I stopped, a little embarrassed at having rather overdone it.
“Mea culpa, Simon, mea maxissime culpa,” Giles said when he caught his breath, grinning broadly. “I was simply having you on. How could I have forgotten your infamous lecture on medieval fallacies?”
I had to laugh then. “I’m that easy, am I?”
“About some things,” Giles said lightly, “but not about others.”
“Now, Giles,” I said, trying to look stem. Ever since he had come to work for me, he’d been trying to change our professional relationship into something far more personal. While I was not totally averse to the notion, I couldn’t in all conscience proceed without first telling him the truth about myself. At that moment I wasn’t terribly eager to explain to him that I’m a vampire.
“Yes, yes, Simon,” Giles said, “no need to offer me chapter and verse yet again.” His tone was airy, but underneath it I could detect the lingering hurt. By then I had little doubt that his feelings for me were sincere—vampires are rather good at sensing and interpreting strong emotion, you see—but I was still uncertain how he would react if he knew the truth. Or, to be perfectly frank, how I would feel if he ran screaming back to Blitherington Hall and wanted nothing further to do with me, once I had Revealed All.
Borrowed with permission from a most gracious medieval scholar, Simon’s good friend and fellow author, Sharan Newman.
“Getting back to the point,” I said, “when do all these Gesta folk descend upon Blitherington Hall?”
“This weekend,” Giles said. “They’ll begin arriving on Friday afternoon, and their gathering will conclude with a big medieval banquet the following Friday night. They usually invite the public to attend the final two days.”
“Then you have ample time to prepare for any... oddness, I suppose.”
Giles shrugged. “No doubt it will all run smoothly, and I’m worrying for no good reason.” He stood up. “But I do need to consult our solicitor. I believe there were some restrictions in the deed of sale, and if we have grounds to stop this rock festival, I want to know what they are. I apologize for having to ask so suddenly, Simon, but would you mind terribly if I took a half-day today? The solicitor is in Bedford, and he can see me this morning at ten-thirty. I should be back by one, at the latest.”
“It’s not a problem, Giles,” I assured him. “I shall be quite busy writing while you’re away. We can work on correspondence this afternoon. I don’t mind putting it off for a few hours.” I reached into my desk for my keys. “Take my Jag, if you like.”
“Thanks, Simon,” Giles said, before blowing me a kiss, the naughty boy. “I shall return as quickly as I can.”
I smiled as he departed. Moments later I heard the door close, then the purr of the Jag as Giles headed for Bedford. The car the poor boy runs is a sad rattletrap, and he does enjoy driving my car. I don’t mind indulging him, for he is a very good driver. Plus he looks devilishly attractive at the wheel, though I don’t tell him that.
Enough of that, I told myself sternly. No use getting sappy when there was work to do. I had recently begun work on a new historical romance, Perdita’s Passion, and Daphne Deepwood couldn’t afford to let her considerable number of eager readers wait too long for the next book. I make quite a tidy sum from the Deepwood books, along with the works of Dorinda Darlington, the name I use for my series about a tough American female private eye.
The current opus featured a heroine caught up in that fifteenth-century drama of Yorkists and Lancastrians, otherwise known as the Wars of the Roses. Perdita was a devout Yorkist whilst her lover was a Lancastrian. There was a lot of turmoil to deal with as I sorted out the differences keeping my heroine and her hero apart.
So engrossed was I in the process that I had quite lost track of time. When the doorbell rang insistently, I surfaced from the fifteenth century and stared at the clock on my desk. I had been writing steadily for several hours, for it was a bit past twelve-thirty. How time does fly when you’re having fun giving your characters a hard time.
Frowning, I saved my work on the computer, then left my office for the front door. I wondered who would be calling on me at this time of day. Most folk in the village were aware of my schedule, and they were generally most circumspect about not bothering me while I was writing. Of course, Giles was usually present to deal with anyone who did have the temerity to ring the doorbell during my working hours.
I opened the front door and blinked into the sunshine. Surely I was seeing things.
“Good Lord, Tris,” I said. “What on earth are you doing in England?”
“Hello, Simon,” said my former lover as he scowled at me. “Lovely to see you, too. And can’t we please get inside, out of this beastly sunshine?”
“Certainly,” I said, stepping aside to let Tristan Lovelace enter Laurel Cottage. This had been his home once upon a time, but he had given it to me over a year ago.
“That’s better,” Tris said, as he pulled off his hat and sunglasses and thrust them at me. “It took you long enough to answer the bell, Simon. What were you doing?”
“Writing,” I said, placing his things on a table in the hall. “That’s how I make my living, if you’ll remember.”
“Yes, yes,” Tris said, “I know that. I’ve even read a few of your books.” He offered me the same vulpine grin that had attracted me the first time I had met him, when I was a fresh graduate student and he was my adviser.
I knew better than to prod Tris for a comment on my books. In his own good time he would tell me his opinion of them. “What are you doing in England, Tris? I thought you weren’t coming over until July.”
“It’s all very last minute. I had an offer for a spot of consulting on a documentary being filmed nearby, something about a group who fancy themselves living in the Middle Ages. I simply couldn’t turn it down when I knew it would afford me the opportunity to see you sooner than I had planned.”
Tris took a step closer to me and laid his hand on my arm. “I wanted to see you, Simon,” he said, “because I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind in recent months.”
Dumbfounded, I stared at him. Gone were the smile and the joking manner—Tris appeared dead serious (pun not intended). If my heart had still been animate, it would have begun pounding by now. “What on earth are you talking about?” I managed to sputter the words as Tris came even closer.
“This,” Tris said before he enveloped me in his arms and placed his lips firmly on mine.
I couldn’t help myself. I responded to his embrace as the memories came flooding back.
I’m not sure how long we stood there, locked in each other’s arms, but neither one of us heard the front door open behind us.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?”
CHAPTER TWO
Startled, I pushed myself loose from Tris’s arms. Giles slammed the door shut and stood there, glowering at me and Tris.
Before I could sa
y anything, Giles’s eyes widened in recognition. “Professor Lovelace? I don’t bloody believe it.”
“You must be young Blitherington,” Tris said, completely unruffled either by Giles’s tempestuous entrance or the hostility in his voice. Tris turned to me. “You might have mentioned, Simon, that the boy had grown into quite an attractive man.”
This wasn’t the first time I had had the urge to slap Tris’s face, but I wasn’t going to give in to my baser impulses in front of Giles.
“Thank you, Professor,” Giles drawled in his insufferably aristocratic tone, the one he assumed when he wanted to be annoying. “I must say that you look rather older than I remembered.”
“My, my,” Tris said, matching drawl for drawl. “The child has claws and isn’t afraid to use them. How frightfully amusing.”
Giles reddened, but before he could respond, I hastened to put an end to the bickering.
“As fascinating as this little pissing contest is,” I said, my tone deliberately offensive, “I actually find it rather distasteful. It’s beneath both of you. You will stop it at once, or I’ll ask you both to leave.”
Tris simply laughed at me, but Giles grew even angrier. I could feel the waves of emotion simply pouring out of him.
“I’ll save you the trouble, Simon,” Giles said. Before I could say another word to stop him, he opened the door and pulled it shut with a loud clatter before he stalked away.
I moved forward, but Tris laid a restraining hand on my arm. “Let him go, Simon.”
I tried to shrug off the hand, but Tris is a very strong vampire. Even as strong as I am, I couldn’t shake myself loose. Then I heard the rattle of Giles’s car as he clattered away from Laurel Cottage.
“Are you satisfied?” I demanded, as Tris finally let go of me.
“Not just yet,” Tris said, pulling me back into his arms.