by Jessica Sims
I didn’t want to, either. But then I thought of all the beautiful pottery in the secret room. I couldn’t just shut the secret door and pretend like we’d never found the stuff. It’d haunt me for the rest of my life if I did.
Clearly Gemma had no such problem. “We should book tickets home tonight. Call the whole thing a wash. I’ll phone Franco and tell him that we changed our minds and he doesn’t have to know what we found. It’ll be our secret.”
I gaped at her. “We don’t have a choice, Gemma. Dead guy or no dead guy, there’s a fortune down there for the taking. It’ll get us back on our feet and set us up for a long, long time. We’re not leaving it behind.”
“It’s not so bad being broke.”
I just stared at her.
“Well, I’m not going back there,” she said stubbornly, then took another big swig of her wine.
Three glasses of wine later, however, I managed to get Gemma back to the apartment. She wept and clung to me drunkenly, saying that the ghosts were going to eat her face. But then again, Gemma was a bad drunk. I put her to bed in the guest room, leaving the lights on, because I knew she’d get scared if she woke up and didn’t see me there with her.
Instead of joining her, I grabbed the matches and my flashlight, and left Gemma a note. Gone downstairs. If I’m not back by morning, there was a dead guy in there after all. Just kidding. Back soon! XO
Then I took a deep breath and tried to calm my racing heart. I was terrified—Gemma wasn’t the only one freaked out by the coffin—but I also had to be practical. Logic told me I was just being silly, the same way it was silly to say a little prayer every time you passed a graveyard.
Even if there was a dead guy in there, he couldn’t do anything to me. But all those priceless treasures? They could change our lives. Both Gemma and I had no money, and no family. We had no one to depend on but ourselves. And if those items in that room were legit, it was worth going into a spooky secret room with a dead body.
Or so I told myself.
I could bring them out one at a time, I mused. Maybe bring up one crate at a time so we didn’t have to pack things downstairs with the body. Then we could quietly re-close the secret door and never say a peep. Or we could report it to the Venetian authorities. It wasn’t as if they could frame us for murder if the dead guy was two hundred (or more) years old, right?
So I put the crowbar, some packing materials, a flashlight, and some extra batteries into a shoulder bag. I added my phone so I could take pictures of any of the items if needed.
Then, taking a deep breath, I shouldered the bag and headed for the secret room.
Three
Upon return, the secret room wasn’t so frightening. Once I got past the wet stairs and the sensation of descending into a well, the small room at the bottom was mostly clean and neat if you didn’t mind the stacks of crates brimming with priceless things. I certainly didn’t.
Soon, though, my suspicions got the better of me, and I immediately checked to see if the pried-off wooden lid had moved from where I’d left it. Nope.
I breathed a sigh of relief and felt a little ridiculous. Of course it hadn’t moved. I was just being silly and paranoid from Gemma’s freak-out. Gemma was scared of mice, heights, communicable diseases, elevators, and wool blends. Of course she was scared of a coffin. And of course I was freaking out along with her. It was a coffin, after all. It wasn’t something one would expect to find in a secret room.
Feeling a little better about things, I started to pull the lid back over the coffin, then paused. I stared down at the lid thoughtfully, then lit the lantern and set it atop a nearby crate.
Since I was here, I might as well see what was in the damn thing, right? It was probably nothing, and then Gemma and I would have a good laugh over the fact that we’d freaked out so badly. Then we’d get back to work cataloging the treasures down here, including the anhua jar I was now mentally referring to as My Precious. We need a two-step plan, I imagined Gemma saying. Step one, get shit done. Step two, make all the money.
But first things first.
I peered at the coffin lid. It was perfectly smooth, made of a solid sort of wood that had a warm cherry color to it and had been polished to a high sheen. It was also completely without design or ornamentation of any kind, so I couldn’t tell how old it was. It might have been made two years ago, or two hundred. There was no writing on the surface, and the crate itself was empty of anything except the coffin.
There was no mistaking the shape, though. It was the classic coffin shape—narrower at the feet and broader where the shoulders would be. My heart hammered as I reached out to tentatively touch the wood.
It felt cool under my fingertips, and I relaxed. Of course it did. Now I was the one being a ninny, wasn’t I? With a small sigh, I put my fingers to the edge of the lid and pried it off.
As light hit the interior, I gasped.
It wasn’t empty.
A man lay inside, a man so stunningly beautiful that he had to be unreal. His mouth was a perfect sculpture of lips, his cheekbones high. His jaw was strong and smooth, his skin pale. Thick, reddish-brown hair tumbled over his brow, and dark brows and thick eyelashes framed his closed eyes. Once I stopped staring at his gorgeous face, I looked at his clothing. It was unfamiliar, a long tunic of a dark shade and equally dark leggings. I did notice that he had one arm at his side, the other over his heart. He gripped a wooden stake.
My jangling nerves suddenly relaxed, and I just shook my head at the sight of that stake. Really? I laughed to myself. This had to be a prank. I looked around for hidden cameras. If this wasn’t one of those reality TV shticks, I’d be shocked. Of course it made sense that this was a setup. An apartment in Venice that had been untouched for years? A secret room with a vampire? I wasn’t born yesterday. I knocked on the edge of the coffin, unamused. “Nice try, buddy, but I don’t buy the vampire thing. Get up.”
The actor in the coffin didn’t move.
Exasperated, I put my hands on my hips. “I’m serious. I don’t know who set you up to this, but it isn’t funny. I don’t believe in ghosts, and I certainly don’t believe in vampires. Good effort, though.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t respond. I stared at him for a long moment to see if his chest rose with breath, but it was hard to tell in the flickering lantern light.
I was quickly getting past amused and heading straight for annoyed. Was all this stuff down here a plant, then? One big prank to get me excited and try to scare me to death? If so, it wasn’t working. I was pragmatic at best, and I didn’t have time for this stupid stuff.
“Come on,” I told the silent actor. “Don’t make me call the cops on you. Get up.” When he didn’t respond again, I lost my patience and grabbed at the stake “in” his chest.
As I grasped it and pulled backward, my fingers brushed against his. I realized, too late, that his fingers were as cold as ice. But then the stake was in my hand and I was stumbling backward, shocked.
No human hand was that cold. No way.
As I stared down at the body in the coffin, the chest expanded, filling with air.
The man’s eyes opened.
I gasped.
And he looked right at me.
“Um,” I said, clutching the stake in my hand. “Hi?” I held the stake out to him. “This must be yours. A-are you a real vampire, then?” I backed up, then froze when my legs brushed against one of the crates. I was terrified, but I was also not about to break the priceless treasures in here by scrambling backward.
The man sat up slowly, like a man waking up from a nap. He rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders, his movements graceful and sinuous. It would have been a pleasure to watch had I not been holding the stake I’d just pulled from his chest.
He slid his legs over the side and hopped out with an ease that made me nervous. He said something that sounded like a question, and his voice was low and husky.
I shook my head, still clutching the stake. “I didn’t catch that
.”
He tilted his head, watching me, and his eyes narrowed. As I stared at him, his nostrils flared, as if he was scenting the air. Then he said something else in that strange language I couldn’t make out. It wasn’t exactly Italian. It sure as heck wasn’t English.
“I don’t understand you,” I said as he continued to stalk toward me. I glanced at the stairs, but I was too far away to get to them in time. I was pinned between a gorgeous, mysterious, undead man and crates full of pottery. Damn it.
He moved toward me, and I inhaled sharply. He smelled . . . strange. Like exotic spices. It was something I’d never smelled before, but it was pleasant. Except now? Now he was standing so close that I could see the utter perfection of his pale skin and the fact that his eyes were blue under those dark russet lashes.
He touched my cheek, and his hand was ice-cold.
I gasped and stepped backward, but I was still backed against a stack of crates. There was no place for me to go.
The stranger said something else in a low, soothing voice. Then, before I could point out that I still didn’t understand him, his lips parted and I watched as fangs emerged from his mouth. With snakelike speed, he hauled me against him and sank his fangs in my throat.
I squealed, choking at the burst of pain. I felt his teeth sink even deeper into my neck, felt his tongue flick against my skin. And even though I was horrified, I was also . . . aroused.
He sucked at my throat, and I felt blood trickle against the collar of my shirt. His tongue flicked against my skin again, and he continued to drink, even as I struggled against him. My fingers curled into fists and I beat against his chest, but he grabbed my wrists in his hand and pinned them easily, and then I was helpless to fight.
The world faded, and the last thing I remembered was his murmur of soft words against my throat. Oddly enough, it felt as if he was telling me it was going to be all right.
Which was a joke, of course. This was not all right. Not in the slightest.
But then I passed out, and I no longer cared.
* * *
“Svegliati!” A cold hand tapped my cheek.
An ache rolled through my body. I felt utterly trampled. My neck felt hot, too. What the . . . ? I opened my eyes, surprised at how heavy my eyelids felt. Something had knocked me on my ass—
A pair of familiar blue eyes met my gaze. Then I remembered. The man in the coffin that I thought was pranking me. His bite. Me passing out.
Vampire!
Oh God! I scrambled backward, shying away.
He continued to crouch on his feet, eyeing me as if I’d been a curious bug. Then he said something to me in Italian. Wait, he was speaking Italian now? I’d have mockingly assumed he was an actor at the sound of that, except the bite had been real and the fact that I was feeling so weak at the moment told me he’d sucked a lot more than he should have.
He spoke to me again, waiting, and his mouth flattened.
That sent a quiver of fear through my body. “I don’t speak Italian.”
The man cocked his head. He said something else and indicated I should continue speaking.
“Um, I don’t know what to say to a vampire,” I said slowly, backing up a little more. Damn these crates. I eyed the staircase—so near and yet so far away. “Other than it’s a pretty terrible thing to grab a girl and use her as your own personal drinking fountain without asking permission first. And that I’m now regretting opening the coffin. A lot.”
He blinked his eyes several times. Then he spoke. “Zzzshou open zzzhe coffin?” His accent was thick, but the words were understandable.
“Yes, that was me.” I watched him warily.
“You pull out zzee stahhhke?”
“You speak English?” I stared at him, uncomprehending.
“I am learning,” he said slowly. “It is entering my head.”
Huh? “What do you mean?”
“The Dragon knows English, thus I learn it,” he said.
Yeah, I had no idea what that meant. “Well, that’s great,” I said brightly, getting to my feet. “But I’ll be going now—”
“Stay,” he commanded.
I gave a muffled peep and dropped back to the floor, my head spinning.
“Where am I?” He gestured at the floor. “This place.” His words were becoming clearer, but his accent was still thick, and unlike one I’d ever heard before. “I am not familiar with it. It is . . . a castle? No? Dungeon?”
“It’s a secret room. Kind of like a hidden basement.” I probably wasn’t explaining it very well, but I wasn’t totally together.
“A basement . . . that is a room below?” He rubbed his chin, thinking. “Why?”
“Why what?” I said defensively. I shivered from the cold in the room, and my head was still spinning from loss of blood. “Why there’s a room down here? It looks like they stored stuff.”
“No. Why . . . me? Why am I down here? In this box?”
“That’s a coffin, and I’m the wrong person to ask,” I said nervously. “I didn’t put you down here.” I really, really hoped he believed that, because I’d seen how fast he was. If he decided I was the enemy, he’d have me dismembered before I could even beg for mercy.
“A coffin? Why?”
Really? “Because you’re a vampire? That’s where vampires sleep.”
His mouth curled into a handsome smile, and my heart pounded. “Is that so?”
“You tell me,” I said defensively. “You’re the vampire.”
“I have been upyri for two hundred years, and I have never slept in a coffin.” He seemed amused.
My eyes widened. “Is that how old you are? Two hundred years old?”
He shrugged. “Once, I was.” He looked around the room, rubbing his chin. “But these things here, the walls, the stairs, the roads, the people . . . they are unfamiliar to me.”
“What do you mean, roads and people? Did you leave while I was unconscious?” Not that I could have stopped him, but the thought of freeing a vampire to roam the canals of Venice bothered me. It felt irresponsible.
He gave me an impatient look. “I am not a prisoner. What is the year?”
“What year do you think it is?” I asked, curious. Some of my fear was fading out of curiosity for his story. Well, as long as he wasn’t biting my neck again.
He studied the room thoughtfully, then me. “When I last slept, the year was 1386. Judging by the changes in the city, I would say it is perhaps . . . 1586? Am I correct?”
I held my fingers up in a pinch. “Wee bit off.”
His brows went up. “1650?”
“Keep going.”
His expression flattened. “1800. Truly?”
Poor guy. “Um. So what would you say if I told you that the year is actually 2015?”
His lips parted. “Truly?”
“ ’Fraid so. Hope you weren’t late for something. Like the Renaissance.”
“The what?”
“Never mind. I’m just talking.” I waved a hand in the air. “Carry on.”
“Did the Christians ever retake Jerusalem, then? Did they continue to crusade in later years?”
Oh Lord. Talk about ancient history. But I forced a bright smile to my face. “You know, that’s a darn good question. I’d have to consult a history book and check. Why don’t I just go upstairs and look it up . . .” I trailed off as his expression darkened.
“You will not leave me behind, wench. I can find you by scent.”
He could? And wait, what was this “wench” stuff? “Wench? I’m going to let that slide, since you’re medieval and all, but I have a name. I’m Lindsey Hughes.”
“I am Sir Rand FitzWulf,” he told me. “Of the Lionheart’s Crusade.”
“Oh, um, okay. Nice to meet you. Actually, it’s not. You drank from me without asking. Not nice to meet you at all.”
The vampire—Rand—looked at me curiously. “You are a peasant, are you not? Why would I ask? You are at my disposal as an overlord.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, because a headache was forming. “I’m not a peasant, and you’re not going to make a lot of friends with that kind of attitude.”
“I am not interested in friends,” he told me coldly, “but vassals. And I have claimed you as my own, so tell me who your lord is so I can tell him I have chosen you.”
I stared. He was joking, right? Did he really think he could just own me because he’d decided it? This guy was insane. I had to get away from him. “As your vassal, then, perhaps I should prepare your chambers upstairs before we go any further?”
He appeared to consider this.
But I pounced on the idea as an escape route. “You should let me,” I gushed. “I need to make amends. And a lord such as yourself must be befitted in the proper rooms, don’t you think? It’s tradition now to let a woman—a wench—go upstairs and fix your room for you to welcome you as her lord.” I was making up this stuff as I went, but I was desperate—anything to get away from this nut. “Then we’ll sit down and have a nice chat over coffee about crusades and the last six hundred years. Sound good?”
Rand’s eyes watched me, and I had the strange impression that I was being assessed by a predator. It wasn’t a good feeling. “Swear it,” he said after a moment. “Swear it on your liege’s life.”
Since I had no liege, that was a pretty safe thing to swear upon. “I swear it. I swear it on the great Elvis Presley’s life.”
“Mmm. You were very quick to swear.” He regarded me, his gaze moving over my body.
I fought to keep my face neutral. “I’m an enthusiastic girl, what can I say?”
“Yet you had no enthusiasm before now.”
“I’m also a delayed-reaction enthusiasm kind of girl.”
His brow furrowed, and I knew he had no idea what my words meant. “No,” he said. “Stay here with me.”
“All righty,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Your call.”
Rand shifted his weight on his feet, then stood. He moved back toward the coffin, and when his hand brushed against the lid, it slid to the ground, clattering. He jumped backward, his hands going to his waist. He patted his side and glanced back at me. “My sword?”