Lucy and the Crypt Casanova

by Minda Webber

  Lucy and the Crypt Casanova

  Minda Webber

  Talk show host Lucy Campbell has made a career of interviewing Druid witches, trolls, and an occasional goblin. But now she wants more. Only she wasn't expecting to get involved with a vampire detective who has a slight incubus problem.

  Minda Webber

  Lucy and the Crypt Casanova

  To: Chris Keeslar,

  a wonderful editor whose

  humor adds greatly to the

  story. Thanks for helping

  me reach my potential.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart to the top of it Romantic Times BOOKreviews. I was so pleased to win Best Historical Vampire Novel of 2005 for The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein. And to Carol Carrol for being a true family friend.

  Chapter One

  Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind

  "It was horrible, just horrible. You can't imagine the terror of it! Nobody should have to go through this, you know?" The black-haired girl cried out dramatically, and the lenses of the television cameras homed in on her big hazel eyes. She had an expressive elfin face; this was the main reason why she had been chosen to do the talk show instead of the four other abductees: her look of utter sincerity.

  In the background, portions of the Twilight Zone talk show set stood out in stark relief. Strands of green ivy and lacelike cobwebs hung from the antique bookshelves. The shelves were full of marbleized skulls, gris-gris charms, and carved coffins hewn from a range of materials from wood to jade.

  "Ya know, they had these really big black eyes staring at me. And they smelled, too!" the girl remarked adamantly.

  Lucy Campbell, Twilight Zone host, nodded once. She was a West Texas girl who had sort of made it good. She was in the limelight—even if that limelight was rather peculiar, much like the guests on her show.

  "What did they smell like?" she asked, wanting her guest, Carol Carroll, to reveal more of the strange encounter.

  "Like really bad body odor, for sure," Carol replied. "And maybe some kind of dead fish thing."

  Again Lucy nodded, commiserating with her guest. "And how long were you held captive?"

  "Three days! Three horrible days filled with golden gooses and fee, fi, fo, fumming. And talk of blood!" Carol Carroll added, horror evident in her voice. "I was poked and prodded and fed golden eggs."

  Lucy held back a grimace, thinking her guest sounded like she'd been held captive by a great big Easter bunny with a penchant for metallic spray paint, rather than an American Desert Ogre.

  "Yes, it must have been quite an ordeal," she said neutrally, trying to keep an open mind. Personally she didn't know if she believed the girl, but there had been more than a few humans laying claim to having been abducted by American Desert Ogres in the last six years.

  Searching Carol Caroll's hazel eyes for the truth, Lucy recalled her mom's sage advice: Where there's smoke, there's fire. So Lucy reasoned that where there were beanstalks, there might be ogres. In today's strange new world, anything was possible.

  Thirteen years ago, monsters and all manner of supernatural creatures had come out of the closet—or rather, cellars and crypts. It had been the media event of the twenty-first century; probably of all centuries. At first there had been many skeptics, but one man changing into a werewolf and another guy drinking blood from a third guy's neck on News 10 could quickly make believers out of even the most devout skeptics. Suddenly the unexpected and unbelievable were real. The American public and the world were expected to accept the impossible.

  Almost overnight there were new legislation, new laws, and new attitudes on this startling and scary revelation. It had become a mad, mad, mad world; the whole world turned upside down. But American capitalists, always quick to profit, decided to make the best of the bloody business, and marketing departments everywhere began hawking Monster Madness, Monster Mania, and so forth. In short, monsters were marvelous.

  Within three years, a bewildered and bemused America had bought into the whole supernatural scene. And it was still going strong. People were corpse crazy, werewolf wild, ghost giddy—and witch and warlock woozy.

  The most recent fad, which had already lasted more than ten years, was a fang frenzy. Life was a veritable Fangtasia, because everyone wanted in on the act—especially dentists, who were making a legitimate killing with the whole big teeth thing. You could get insincere fangs, sincere fangs, fake fangs, and fangs for the memories. Fangs that were eye-blindingly white, and fangs that were ebony black. And some people wore the two in combination, for a piano key effect. You could get newfangled fangs with intricate engravings, or bejeweled and bedecked biters. Small fangs and big fangs, monstrous fangs in snarling or howling mouths, all were displayed in every advertising campaign in America. Yes, wherever a person went, she was almost guaranteed to be flashed by fangs. Of course, fang flashing with intent was now a felony.

  Along with the radically changing mix of human and non-human culture, other new opportunities had presented themselves, spawning a whole new category of television. There were supernatural talk shows like Dr. Spook, the premier spectral authority on adolescent ghosts, and Haunted Home Improvement hosted by T. Taylor Andrews. Comedy shows had sprung up for the walking dead, such as Saturday Night Unlive, and The Tonight Show hosted by Blade, a vampire with a razor-sharp wit. Not to be outdone, the shape-shifting community had developed the game show Jeopardy 2, where humans hid and ran from werewolves, werelions, and werebears (which were not cute and cuddly like teddy bears, if you were thinking they might be). In the last year, a program called Supernatural Survivor had garnered top ratings. The show was reality-based, and participants needed to survive nights in haunted houses, or in cemeteries while being chased by ghosts or ghouls.

  New industries provided new job opportunities, which was great for people like Lucy. She had been in debt not only from finishing college, but also from paying her mother's medical bills. So, when opportunity knocked in the form of a talk show—even if it was really out there—Lucy had answered. She knew she might be sacrificing a bit of her journalistic integrity, but a job was a job; she'd decided to enter the Twilight Zone. And so Lucy had packed her bags and gone to New Orleans, which was now the major hub of supernatural activity. The city's new motto: "We'll raise your spirits."

  But her talk show had turned out to deal with sensational and silly subjects of the supernatural realm. At first Lucy had hoped that she could guide the program into more serious topics, but since the Twilight Zone had been talk show sensationalism at its best before she replaced the last host, the producers demanded to continue in the same vein. No respectable or self-respecting monster would be caught on her show, dead or undead, so two years later found Lucy's professional reputation shredded by the sometimes-ludicrous stories she was forced to do in hopes of almighty ratings.

  Like right now. Lucy silently sighed and turned her attention back to her guest.

  "For sure, I'll never forget his big black eyes and that creepy goose he was holding. And that harp music."

  "I've heard that ogres like harps," Lucy commented, a polite smile on her face. Harp music was synonymous with ogres. Lucy had done some research, and had learned that ogres were enthralled with the sound—or so every other abductee had said.

  "I hate the harp, and that's all I heard night and day—that damn music! It was like being stuck in an elevator forever. Man, it was a bad scene."

  When Lucy cocked a brow, the girl added, "You know, that horrible chamber music? I prefer Zydeco and hard rock, not some classical crap my ancestors listened to because they had nothing else."

  "Of course," Lucy said.

  "That harp music made me, like
, bonky—along with all that yucky chanting."

  "Chanting?" Lucy asked politely. The assistant producer of the show held up his fingers, indicating she had less than two minutes to close. Thank God.

  "You know, the fee, the fi, and the blood-smelling stuff."

  "Ah yes, the fee, the fi and the foing." Lucy nodded kindly. Was it really possible, or had Carol Carroll simply watched too many reruns of The X-Files?

  "And did I tell you that overgrown ogre dropped beans on my head?" Carol Caroll asked, her eyes wide. "Beans! Over and over. That doesn't sound like much, but let beans get dropped on your head when you're trying to sleep!"

  Lucy patted the girl's hand. "I imagine it's like Chinese water torture." But when the black-haired, tattoo-faced abductee looked blank, she added, "Never mind."

  She wondered what the students of today were being taught: Spells in Sixty Minutes? Which witch is which? Where was all the classical Cold War history stuff? Lucy supposed that the Red Scare was now seen as the possibility of being sucked dry in the dark by a hungry vampire.

  Giving a nod to her young guest, Lucy turned to smile into the camera. "Well, that's all for tonight. I want to thank our guest, Carol Carroll, for coming on and revealing her ordeal at the hands of her ogre abductors."

  On cue, the audience applauded. The camera zoomed in, focusing entirely on Lucy Campbell, capturing her all-American good looks—blond, blue-eyed, and classically beautiful.

  "Be sure to tune in to tomorrow's show: 'Voodoo priests who have fallen in love with their dolls,'" she continued, secretly cringing at the subject. How had she fallen so low? She wanted to do serious subjects, with prominent paranormal guests.

  If only she could get real-life werewolves or vampires on the Twilight Zone, instead of wannabe bloodsuckers and men with hair-growth problems. Not to mention the less respectable witches and warlocks she'd booked, lesser shapeshifers, and the occasional troll or goblin. She had once almost gotten a demon to be a guest, but his price for appearing had been her soul. Lucy had quickly and quite firmly declined his offer and gotten herself out of the hot seat.

  If only she could get a good guest, or break a good story. If only.

  Chapter Two

  The Lucy Show

  The elevator opened on the seventh floor, where the office of the owner of WPBS—the Paranormal Broadcasting Station—was located. Lucy walked across the plush gray carpet and announced herself to Mr. Moody's secretary. "The boss wanted to see me?" she asked the plump matron.

  The secretary nodded, then added in a low, warning voice, "He's on the warpath."

  Lucy thanked her; then, steeling herself for the meeting, she walked inside, wondering what burr had gotten stuck under the man's saddle now.

  Glancing toward Moody's massive mahogany desk, she noted that the old crab was on the phone. Short, gruff, and about twenty pounds overweight, in broadcasting he was a force with which to be reckoned.

  Mr. Moody hung up the phone and took in what Lucy was wearing, a cornflower-blue dress with a low-cut back and beaded bodice. "You must have a hot date planned tonight," he remarked.

  Lucy shrugged. Her date was a first date, and she suspected it would be anything but hot. The man in question was handsome, but in a spoiled good looks kind of way. She wasn't sure why she'd agreed to the date.

  She fought back annoyance at Moody's comment. What bad luck that he'd noticed. Usually she didn't date after her show, which was on weekdays and started at 9:00 p.m., an hour before primetime. Since the supernatural world had barged into the mortal world with much more bite than bark, most nations had revamped their workdays. The average shift now started at 11:00 a.m. and finished at 8:00 p.m., and many stores stayed open all night. This enabled paranormal clients and customers to shop 'til they dropped—unless they got home before sunrise.

  "Is he a paranormal?" her boss asked curiously.

  Lucy knew her personal life was just that, but what could she do? This was the boss, even if he was a nosy busybody who liked to point his pug nose into everything.

  "No," she said.

  Moody looked put out. "Damn! You need to make some better connections. You'd better start poking around in some coffins and loup garou dens."

  Lucy frowned. She wasn't the type to sleep her way to the top, especially in coffins. Not after her past. Deciding not to reply, she sat down in a green plaid chair as Mr. Moody pointed his finger at her.

  "I'm not happy with the cost of your show, Lucy Campbell. No, missy, I am not," he warned, his thick brows drawn together in a frown.

  Lucy rolled her eyes. Her boss's name fit him like a perfectly tailored suit. He was cantankerous, contrary, cheap—and alternately creative and charming. One night he was as high as a kite, and other nights he was channeling Satan.

  "So, I'm in the soup again, am I?" she said.

  "I had to replace our specialty chair and the coffee table this week alone," he growled with firm displeasure. "And the show was a flop."

  This was definitely one of his moody nights. Lucy grimaced as she recalled the Great Appalachian Troll. Over seven feet tall and massively built, the creature had flopped down hard on the specially made chair designed for guests who weighed more than three but less than five hundred pounds. There had been a loud creaking noise, and then suddenly both chair and troll had collapsed. Naturally the troll—never the calmest of species in the best of circumstances—had gotten angry and had smashed the matching coffee table as well, scattering cups and food everywhere. The guests had shouted and cheered, but Lucy had been left with coffee and egg on her face. And now this bill. Dang! Moody would bring up the troll episode.

  "Who knew that Appalachian Trolls weighed over five hundred pounds?" she asked, her eyes wide with innocent indignation.

  "Perhaps if you had researched a bit more about this particular guest?" Mr. Moody retorted.

  "I did! But the troll must have been embarrassed about her weight and lied. She was a female troll, after all. And I apologized until I was blue in the face, but she was still surly. We also didn't have another chair sturdy enough to accommodate her, so she had to stand through the rest of the interview. I guess I have to admit the whole show went downhill from there."

  Scowling, Mr. Moody made a face that made his thick brushy brows meet in the middle of his forehead, the look clearly saying the troll mess was all her fault. Dang, she had seen that look before. And so Lucy added, "I did stand up with her so she wouldn't feel out of place."

  "You know she'll tell all her troll buddies about us. We'll probably never get another troll on our show again—at least, not on this side of the Appalachians!"

  That would be a loss, Lucy thought snidely. No more egg on her face? But she said, "I'm sorry. Accidents do happen."

  "You can say that again. You're accident-prone, Lucy. I tell you, accident-prone."

  Lucy kept a straight face, neither accepting nor denying the statement. Just because she had been bitten by gremlins, slimed by ghosts, and cursed by warlocks, that didn't mean she was any unluckier than other people were. Other people just didn't spend their nights with the Amityville horror or wacked-out witches. Of course, there was one encounter in the past that made her feel unlucky. A vampire. One who…

  She tore her thoughts away from that as Moody said, "I don't spend half as much money on my other shows as I do on yours. Why, Creature Comforts hardly costs a dime."

  "Why should it?" Lucy snapped. "All your host has to do is walk around stylish homes of rich and famous monsters." Having seen mausoleums of some famous undead, Lucy personally thought it was a dream job—for a mortician.

  Mr. Moody continued, ignoring her. "Besides the large antebellum ballroom, I hardly incur any expenses for Monster Mash."

  "What kind of expenses would you incur on a show where everyone is dancing? Maybe a few broken high heels? A lost sense of rhythm? All Ginger your ghost host has to do is announce the odd couples."

  "They still don't cost much to produce," Moody grumbled.

>   Holding up a hand, Lucy defended herself staunchly—and with the few words that would most count. "I have the highest ratings of all the shows you produce."

  Mr. Moody slammed down a bill from Billy's Barbecue on his desk. Giving her a black look, he asked, "Well, what the hell is this? Three hundred dollars for a single meal?"

  "That was lunch, of course," Lucy explained patiently. The man could be an unreasonable monster at times, worse than a vampire trying to squeeze blood from turnips. But one had to be stupid to get in his way when he got on the warpath. "A five-hundred-pound Appalachian Troll has a mighty big appetite. Heck, when we were done, she ordered a whole goat to go."

  Moody looked up at the ceiling as if the answer to his dilemma were written there. "Lucy, your show costs twice what my other shows cost. And may I remind you that I am paying you an exorbitant salary? Do I need to remind you that I gave you this job even though your only credits beforehand were merely some work in a small-town television station in Texas where you were the weather girl?"

  Exorbitant salary, her aunt Fanny! Although Mr. Moody was paying her more per week than her job in Round Rock as a weather girl had, she would never be wearing Prada at this rate.

  "I was a great weather girl," she argued. "That station loved me." Lucy had been slowly moving up in the ranks. "I also got to do the television news for two weeks when our anchorman got bitten by a ghoul. The ratings went up for those two weeks too."

  "Only because you fell out of your chair twice. Hell, you weren't even drinking."

  Lucy glared at him, mortified. "That could have happened to anybody. I was nervous, and miscalculated when I sat down."

  Mr. Moody only shook his head. "That should have warned me."

  "Besides, I was still upset about my mother's accident," Lucy continued. Ten months after she'd gotten the job, a grizzly werebear driver had hit her mother with his van. Fortunately her mother had lived to tell the tale, but unfortunately she didn't have any insurance. The medical costs were huge, and since the werebear had also been seriously hurt, her mother had been fined for harming an endangered species.