Without waiting for the rest of his speech, I did what any reasonable person would do. I brought the steel pan crashing down on his head.
“Ow,” the shape growled, although he did not drop to his knees.
I shrieked and whacked him again, a nice uppercut swing that landed across his face. Enough moonlight spilled from the window that I could just make out the slim build, long limbs, dark hair, and darker eyes.
“Stop that!” he spat, sounding rather annoyed now. And I found the tone of his voice really pissed me off. He was in my house. He was skulking around in my kitchen, cooking what I assumed was my food, and he was annoyed with me for interrupting him? He grunted when I swung the pan down on the crown of his head, but he still didn’t drop.
“Screw this, I’m going to get my knives,” I hissed, stomping toward the kitchen.
This was stupid for two reasons. One, I could have just walked out of the house unscathed. Also, I’d just broadcast my plans to my opponent. The moment I moved past him, his arm shot out and caught me by the hand, squeezing with enough force that I cried out. Twirling the wok with my free hand, I smacked his arm away with the edge of the pan.
“Stop hittin’ me with Asian cookware!” he shouted, shoving me away, sending me skidding into the fridge.
“Get the hell out of my house!” I shouted back.
He backed toward the doorway. “Look, I’m going to turn on the lights. And when I do, please don’t swing any other kitchen stuff at my head.”
“Did you miss the part where I said ‘Get the hell out of my house’?”
“Well, that’s the thing. It’s not your house, it’s mine.”
I squinted as he flicked on the lights.
Holy hell.
My deluded burglar was sex in a pair of Levi’s. He was tall and lean, with the exception of a well-developed chest and arms under a worn True Value Hardware T-shirt. His eyes were a warm teak color with dark chocolate centers around the pupils, which complemented the mussed dark hair nicely. He had high cheekbones, marked with a little triangle of freckles at the corner of his left eye, which shouldn’t have been adorable on a burglar, but it was.
The most unusual thing about him was his skin, which was paper-pale. No one I’d so far seen in this town was pale, particularly the young men. People here spent so much time outdoors, doing farm work or yard work or hunting or fishing—everyone I’d seen had a healthy windburned glow. But this guy’s skin was like polished marble, smooth and white, with a faintly iridescent shine. He flashed me his best winning smile, a blinding white with prominent canines. I stepped back instinctively.
“Oh, come on! You’re a vampire?”
He grinned nastily, dropping his fangs.
“Damn it.”
Contrary to popular legend, vampires didn’t have to wait to be invited into your house. They could walk through any human’s door any time they wanted. They just chose not to out of politeness. This was one of the many, many misconceptions that had been blown out of the water when vampires came out of the coffin in 1999.
Believe it or not, even living in a big city, I hadn’t come into contact with vampires often. Unable to digest human food, they didn’t exactly flood my restaurant with business. We had a vampire dishwasher for a while. The hours suited him perfectly, but being around that much silver, to which vampires were severely allergic, had him on edge for his entire shift, and he quit after three weeks. We tried to point out that our silverware was actually stainless steel, but Bruno couldn’t be persuaded. It was a shame. He was the one guy we could count on to show up on time.
I’d always figured that vampires had centuries under the radar to sink their teeth into anyone they wanted before the Coming Out, so why would they pick off random bystanders now that they were under media scrutiny? At least, that’s what I thought before one of them slunk into my kitchen and used my microwave without permission.
What the hell did a vampire heat up in a microwave, anyway?
“Whatsa matter?” he asked, the faint bluegrass twang rising and falling like ripples in bourbon. “Cat got your tongue?”
Despite the panty-dropping lilt of his voice, he touched the nerve that hadn’t sparked since Phillip had uttered the word “sabbatical.” I grabbed for the canvas carrying case that protected my ungodly expensive ceramic knives.
“Oh, put the knives down,” he said, moving around me at lightning speed and pushing the case out of my reach. “Gosh darn hysterical female.”
“Look, pulse or no pulse, you are breaking and entering. You need to get out, right now, or I’ll call the Council hotline.”
“Call V-one-one,” he said, referring to the nickname for the World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead’s national hotline for humans with vampire problems. “I have every right to be here.”
“I have a rental agreement in my bag that says otherwise,” I shot back.
“My name is Sam Clemson. I’ve lived here for the last five years. My wife and I are in the middle of a divorce. Until it’s final on October 28, I have the legal right to be here.”
“Tess Maitland. Wait—” I clapped my hand over my face. “Lindy’s husband? George said her husband died!”
“Well, to be fair, he wasn’t wrong,” he admitted. “I was turned about two years ago.”
“Show me some ID,” I said, holding out my hand imperiously. I would think about exactly how stupid it was to order vampires around at a later date.
The corners of his lips quirked. “What?”
“How do I know you’re not just some crazy who wandered into the house? All vampires are required by Council to register after they’re turned and file for their vampire identification card.”
“Congratulations, you’ve read USA Today.”
“Show me the card, Mr. Clemson.”
“Sam, please. Mr. Clemson was my father.”
“Are you sure about that?” I retorted.
“Haha, I’m a bastard, clever.” He grumbled as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and handed me the little green card. He was indeed Sam Clemson, and this was his address. And contrary to all laws of DMV logic, Sam took a damn fine ID picture.
“So, you’ve been here this whole time? How? Where have you been sleeping—” I gasped. “Is that why I can’t get into the basement? You’re locked in there during the day?”
“I don’t think I should tell you where I sleep during the day,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.
My lips wanted to twitch into a smile, but I clamped them tightly together. I supposed I couldn’t blame him for being cautious. Some paranoid humans spent the first year “postvampire” finding any reason possible to drag vampires out into the daylight or push them onto handy pointy wooden objects. The Council formed to “formally interact with human governments and facilitate open, cordial communication.” In other words, they busted their way into the homes of presidents, prime ministers, and dictators around the world and told them, “Quit killing us off for your twisted amusement, or we will FedEx you pieces of your beloved Robert Pattinson.”
And then a thought occurred to me.
“Wait, did Lindy know you were still staying here?” I demanded. He nodded, stepping away from me and my kitchen implements. “She rented this house to me knowing there was a vampire sleeping in the basement? That bitch!”
“Hey,” he objected. “That’s my—well, my ex-wife you’re talkin’ about. Do you always cuss so much?”
“Aren’t you the least bit upset about this?” I yelled.
“Of course I’m upset about it,” he shouted back. “Do you think I’m happy that my wi—Lindy thought it was OK to open our home up to some stranger, without tellin’ me? I didn’t even realize you were here until yesterday, when I tripped over your stupid box of kitchen stuff. How early have you been goin’ to sleep, woman?”
“Beside the point.”
“I was still tryin’ to figure out how to get you out of the house without talking to you, when you came in he
re swingin’ that wok. Who travels with a wok?”
“You, don’t talk anymore,” I snapped at him. I snatched up my purse from the hallway and grabbed my phone. I didn’t feel bad about calling, despite the fact that it was after 11:00 P.M. Even if Lindy was in bed, I thought she owed me an explanation. She didn’t pick up, and the call went to voice mail. I hissed out very specific instructions to call me as soon as she got my message, no matter what the time.
I slammed my phone onto the counter and let out a vicious stream of anatomically detailed curses.
He pulled those full, pale lips into a sneer. “You are just a big ol’ ball of sunshine, aren’t you?”
“The better to melt your face with, my dear,” I snapped. I took a deep breath and tried to remember that even if this guy was being a bit of a dick, it wasn’t his fault that his ex-wife had taken the last of my cash reserves under false pretenses. I was ashamed that I’d been conned by that little bumpkin bimbo. Clearly, a perky blond ponytail and a great big Jesus fish on one’s car didn’t make a person trustworthy.
I sighed. “OK, calling the cops is out, because you apparently live here. And I really need to take full advantage of my lease. I’m only here for a month.”
“I will not leave my house for some random stranger.”
“So, I guess we’re at an impasse,” I said.
“Yeah, if ‘impasse’ means ‘the foul-mouthed human moves out as soon as possible.’”
I crossed my arms under my chest . . . and realized that sort of pushed my boobs up into this weird cleavage popover. I dropped my arms. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Fine, you don’t have to leave,” he said silkily as moved toward me. His body language suddenly shifted into a predatory lean, his tall frame looming over me, trapping me against the counter. “By all means, please stay. It gets so lonely out here when I’m on my own. I could use some . . . companionship.” He dropped his fangs and bared them dramatically.
And because the bad-decision-making lobes of my brain were in charge, I giggled instead of cowering against the counter. I stepped forward, into the cage of his arms.
“I’m sorry. Are you trying to intimidate me?” I scoffed. “You’re about as threatening as the cornfield chorus on Hee Haw. Do you have any idea what it takes for a woman to work her way up to head chef at a fine-dining restaurant in a major city? Or what kind of bullshit I’ve had to put up with over the years from chauvinist pigs who didn’t think I should be able to tell them what to do because I lacked the requisite testicles? I’m going to tell you the same thing I told them. I own thirty different types of extremely expensive knives. And I know how to put each of them to creative use. Try to intimidate me again, and you will wake up next to a beautifully plated medley of freshly sautéed vampire bits.”
Slightly boggled, Sam stared down at me, horrified, and backed away. “You’re crazy.”
“You’ll find that all chefs are a little unstable.” I offered him my scariest smile, the kind that made waiters cringe away like frightened deer. “Normal people don’t like to play with fire and raw meat all day.”
He grabbed his mug of what I assumed was blood and stalked toward the basement door, glaring over his shoulder.
I grinned to myself. “I think I won that one.”
—
With the (disturbingly attractive) interloper holed up in his basement, I made a huge pot of coffee and retreated to my room. I threw my blinds up so the minute the sun rose, my room would be bathed in light, and crouched on my bed.
I had a vampire roommate. This was just the cherry on the crap sundae of my life.
Was this even legal? Could Lindy rent the house to me when it was already occupied? Vampire property rights were still a little vague. After the Great Coming Out, the Council wrangled with the human governments over financial issues. Vampires became the answer to a dwindling economy, an untapped taxable workforce capable of launching untold cottage industries—blood banks, all-night shopping centers, fang-friendly dental clinics.
But there were problems. Recently turned vampires weren’t eager to take back the credit-card balances they’d left behind when they’d “died.” Other vampires hadn’t paid taxes in centuries and deeply resented the idea that they’d have to file 1040s. This reluctance led to some resentment from the humans, which led to some “less than friendly” policies toward the undead when it came to mortgages, leases, and probate laws. After all, vampires weren’t technically alive, so how could they have property rights?
Even after the Undead Civil Rights Act, there were still loopholes of which humans took full advantage. Landlords suddenly aware of why some tenants only came out at night kicked vampires out of their apartments over the slightest infractions. Home loans to vampires came with outrageous interest rates. And when they divorced, they were lucky to get away with the clothes on their backs. I couldn’t imagine a judge in semirural Kentucky giving Sam a fair shake against sweet little Lindy.
Was this rental scheme some sort of revenge against Sam? They’d been married for three years before Sam had been turned. Clearly, Lindy had skinned him in the divorce. She’d taken all of the good furniture, whatever had been hanging on the walls. There wasn’t anything in the kitchen cupboards but lint and the groceries I’d brought. I was surprised she let Sam stay in the house.
I didn’t have the luxury of sympathizing with Sam. Maybe it was selfish, but I wasn’t in a very stable position myself. I’d cleared out my checking account to put down the rent on this place. I had a healthy savings account, but it was earmarked for my new apartment. And I didn’t know whether I had a job to return to after my “sabbatical.” My contract with Coda was performance-based. I got a share in the business, but the owners didn’t have to keep using me in the kitchen if I was unable to fulfill their expectations. If I didn’t have a regular paycheck, I would need every penny when I got back to the city.
I didn’t have the available cash to travel somewhere else. I couldn’t go home. I lived right around the corner from Coda. The temptation to go back to check on my kitchen would be too great. I could stay with Chef Gamling and George, I supposed. But it would prick my pride. It was bad enough that Chef felt he had to nurse me back to health like some emotionally stunted kitten. Plus, Chef’s house didn’t even have a guest room. The second bedroom had been converted into Chef’s painting studio. I would be reduced to a couch surfer. A big pathetic couch-surfing loser who talked to vegetables.
Still, I wouldn’t stay in a house with a strange man, much less a man who saw me as his favorite food group.
I didn’t want to leave the house. Hell, if I had the money for a vacation home in the sticks, I would buy the place. I liked the weird nooks and crannies in the design. I liked the quiet and the way the light came through the kitchen windows in the morning. I could sleep there, and I couldn’t seem to sleep anywhere. I wasn’t going to give that up. I needed the Lassiter place to get better. If Sam was going to get in the way of that, he would have to go.
Blinded by the Brine
3
My new landlord did not appreciate my predawn call.
“Is there a problem with the house?” Lindy asked, all guilelessness and concern.
I huffed out an irritated sigh. She was honestly going to make me say it. She was going to plead ignorance, just in case I was calling about a leak in the roof or a plumbing problem.
“Yes, you didn’t make it clear in the rental ad that the house came with a fully furnished vampire lair in the basement,” I snapped.
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. Your vampire ex-husband is sleeping in the basement. That would be pertinent information to give a prospective tenant, I think, before renting out the house.”
“Look, this really isn’t my problem, Tess.”
“You rented me a house that someone was already living in!”
She yawned. “Technically, no one is living there.”
“Don’t you argue semantics with me. You either ge
t your vampire ex out of here, or you refund my money.”
“You’ll find I don’t have to do either. You signed the paperwork. The house is livable. Besides, I don’t have your money anymore.”
It was all downhill from there. Lindy said the house was my problem now and told me I had to deal with it. I told her to do a lot of things, most of which were not anatomically possible. She called the cops and reported me for harassment.
It turned out that there was very little that local law enforcement could do to help me resolve my dispute with Lindy. Until the divorce was final, Lindy was technically entitled to rent out the space as she chose, according to Half-Moon Hollow Police Sergeant Russell Lane, although he said it in a tone that gave me the distinct impression that he was guessing. The good news was that as far as the police were concerned, I hadn’t violated my rental agreement. I hadn’t actually threatened Lindy, just annoyed her. So she couldn’t force me to leave just because she was upset with me.
“Don’t I have the right to a house without undead occupants?” I’d asked Sergeant Lane.
He shrugged. “You are free to take her to small-claims court.”
Considering that the case would likely be called months after I returned to Chicago, I decided against that. I also passed on Lane’s suggestion that I could move into a motel in town if I was so uncomfortable with Sam’s presence in the house. I saw a few of those establishments on my first drive through town. Unless I was an out-of-state fisherman or an adulterer, I didn’t think I would be comfortable at the Lucky Clover Motel.
Given the choice between sticky sheets and bedbugs versus a vampire, I would take my chances with the vampire.
My day did not get better. Despite my extreme fatigue, I couldn’t get any rest. I tossed and turned, but I was too keyed up from my visit from the fuzz. There was this weird gnawing sensation under my breastbone that kept me from relaxing.
How had I become so uncomfortable in my own skin? I used to be such a physical person. When I was in school, everything seemed easy. When I was hungry, I ate. If my body felt too soft, I exercised. And the sex. Everything you’ve heard about the stove being a hotbed for sexual tension is completely true.
The Undead in My Bed Page 11