Adventures of a Vegan Vamp: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery

Home > Other > Adventures of a Vegan Vamp: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery > Page 1
Adventures of a Vegan Vamp: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery Page 1

by Cate Lawley




  ADVENTURES OF A VEGAN VAMP

  CATE LAWLEY

  CONTENTS

  Bonus Content

  Prologue

  1. The Night I Died a Little

  2. The Flu

  3. How Am I Alive?

  4. New Doctor, Not Witchdoctor

  5. Mother Knows (Me) Best

  6. Rats vs. the Flu

  7. Getting a Life

  8. Not a Pimple in Sight

  9. My First Real Vampire Ever

  10. Farewell, Mrs. Arbuthnot

  11. Not Breaking, Definitely Entering

  12. Vampire Tears and Crocodile Smiles

  13. Silent Corpse, Chatty Spirits

  14. Paranoia and the Inquisition

  15. Ratodile

  16. Pushing the Baggage…Into a Black Hole

  17. My First Sleepover…Basically

  18. My First Magic Sword Ever

  19. A Girl and Her Sword Are Never Parted

  20. One of These Is Not Like the Others

  21. Barefoot Hero

  22. Life Sucks? Get a Life Coach

  The Client’s Conundrum (Vegan Vamp #2) Preview

  Bonus Content

  Also by Cate Lawley

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 Catherine G. Cobb

  Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

  All rights reserved.

  For CS and EOC. You’ve made writing a reality rather than a possibility.

  BONUS CONTENT

  Interested in bonus content for the Vegan Vamp series? Subscribe to my newsletter to receive a bonus chapter for Adventure of a Vegan Vamp as well as release announcements and other goodies! Sign up at http://eepurl.com/b6pNQP.

  PROLOGUE

  I died a little. I wish I could say it was a blur—but it’s a blank. A mystery. I was an anxiety-ridden, overachieving, successful professional—and human. I definitely started this story very human. But now I’m none of those things.

  This story is about the murder of that woman and catching the man who killed her. It’s also about how I became a vampire—and also a little about how becoming a vampire was the best thing that could have happened to me.

  1

  THE NIGHT I DIED A LITTLE

  “Mallory, darling, you’re buying tonight, aren’t you?” Sleek red hair, high cheekbones, and long legs made longer by her impossible heels. My skin itched with jealous annoyance just looking at her.

  “Sure,” I said, even though I knew Liz would ditch her usual drink for a premium. The gang invited me when they wanted free drinks, because I picked up the tab every other time I tagged along. At least, that was my suspicion. I made more money than the rest of them, and they knew it. That created tension. But was it my fault they couldn’t negotiate their salary better? I handed the bartender my debit card and pointed to the four people sitting to my right, indicating I’d be paying for their round.

  The guy was kind of cute in a tight-T-shirt, skinny-jeans, bearded-hipster way, but he didn’t make eye contact. He grabbed my card, swiped it to open my tab, and handed it back to me. He didn’t even look up when I gave him my drink order: a white wine spritzer. I might not be five foot nine with killer cheekbones and a glamorous sense of style—but not all of his patrons could look like Liz.

  At least he was fast. My drink arrived—after Liz’s, Shelley’s, Martin’s, and Penelope’s—but still pretty quickly. I tried not to sigh. My suit was expensive and well tailored, my makeup reasonably fresh, and I was having a good hair day. And—the most important factor—I was picking up the tab. So what was it that made people like the hipster bartender slip right over me as if I didn’t exist?

  Or like I smelled really bad? I discreetly sniffed. No. My supercharged twenty-four-hour antiperspirant was doing its job. He was just a jerk with a brain that worked significantly less than his biceps—or some other part of his anatomy.

  Liz turned to include me in the conversation, so I inched closer. It had to be work related.

  Penelope had a self-satisfied smirk on her face. “I was just saying, our new boss plans to fire two people from our division. I heard from a very reliable source. And you know how much they like to clean out inflated salaries whenever the opportunity arises.”

  My lips curved slightly. “Or those with the lowest reviews.”

  Penelope’s nostrils flared. The spiteful heat of her stare bounced off me with no effect. Again, not my fault that she spent as much time on social media as she did with her clients.

  “Still, when looking at tightening up the budget, it makes sense that bloated salaries would be targeted.” Martin looked at me with a certain glee that made him appear, just for a moment, as vicious as he actually was.

  Martin was not someone I envisioned as having a mother. Hatched, maybe, but not born. A half-swallowed chuckle almost gagged me, but I managed to keep white wine spritzer from spurting out my nose—barely. The image of Martin emerging fully formed, more reptile than mammal, from the remains of an eggshell was impossible to erase. I tried not to snigger. He was such a loathsome being that I couldn’t help but cling to that image as my own private revenge. I would never forget the opportunities he’d stolen from me, the rumors he’d spread, the trouble he’d stirred up with clients. I’d overcome the obstacles he’d thrown in my path, time after time, but he’d made my life—my success at work—much more difficult.

  Martin glared, as if he could see the image I’d conjured. “Really, Mallory. No one will be surprised if they fire you. Your interpersonal skills are somewhat lacking—as I’m sure more than one supervisor has told you. You’re not exactly popular with the clients.”

  Which wasn’t exactly true. I was quite good at my job, and I may not always make the best first impression—helped along by a quiet word or two whispered by Martin—but when it came down to getting work done well, my clients knew I was reliable. And organized. Efficient, overachieving, hardworking…the adjectives had a sameness, and therein was a glimmer as to why everyone despised me. I was better at my job, and not particularly likable. At least I was self-aware enough to realize it. Changing it? That was simply a step too far. I am what I am.

  I understood all of this, but why people felt the need to blame me for their failings, I would never know. How Penelope’s Facebook addiction, Liz’s penchant for sleeping with married coworkers, and Martin’s general sliminess—all factors that had impeded their careers—were any fault of mine, I would never understand. My eyes passed over Shelley. At least Shelley was okay. She’d never been blatantly spiteful like the others in my division, but she was hardly warm.

  I closed my eyes and imagined I was at home in my apartment. A restful space away from these people. It was exhausting being the person everyone blamed and no one liked. No more. I didn’t need the hassle. Fitting in wasn’t worth it—especially when there was zero chance I’d ever actually be accepted. When I opened my eyes, a second wine spritzer was in front of me. I tried to catch the bartender’s gaze to thank him, but he’d already moved on to another blonde, beautiful customer.

  I drained my first drink and quickly started in on the second. As soon as I finished it, I was headed home. Thankfully, my apartment was within walking distance, so I could chug that spritzer with a clear conscience.

  2

  THE FLU

  Why did my mouth feel like it had been stuffed with cotton balls? I tried to swallow and almost puked in my mouth. I held my breath and fought the urge to swallow again…tried not to throw up. I needed to be absolutely still—because I would never make it to the bathroom.

  Even the thought of moving made my head pound with a
vicious rhythm. An eyelid cracked of its own volition and the pain at the base of my skull and behind my eyes ratcheted up. I carefully shut my eyes and lay very, very still. Finally, after counting backward from a hundred, I started to feel myself drift away.

  A DESERT SURROUNDED ME. A cool desert. A cool, dry desert. Slowly, I became aware of the feel of the sheets against my skin, the pillow under my head. And then the parched, cottony feel of my mouth. I almost groaned—almost. But then I remembered the gut-piercing, brain-pounding pain from earlier. The feeling that my head would explode into a billion tiny pieces. So I didn’t make a sound.

  I lay in my bed—still, in pain, and afraid—for I don’t know how long…but then I realized I was thirsty. Wandering-the-desert, no-water-for-days thirsty. I opened my mouth a little and experimented with moving my lips. The pulling sensation that forewarned of cracking skin stopped me. Water had never sounded so glorious. I could feel it slipping past my lips, moistening my mouth… And then I did groan, because there was no water. And my head exploded in pain, followed by a black nothingness.

  SOMEONE HAD SUPERGLUED my eyelids shut. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realized that wasn’t okay. Kidnapping, home invasion, a Criminals Minds-type serial killer—scenarios flashed through my mind. But I wasn’t afraid. I experienced, in fact, a complete absence of fear. I was simply too tired to feel any strong emotion.

  I must have drifted off to sleep again, because when I woke up I vaguely remembered thoughts of superglue and kidnapping, but this time I realized how insane that was, mostly because I could open my eyes—just. It took some delicate prying. I’d had allergy attacks that left my eyes crunchy—I lived in allergy central, a.k.a. Austin, Texas—but the crud in my eyes was something entirely different.

  Whatever the funky goo was, the effort of unsticking my eyelashes from it had wiped me out. I lay on my bed and tried to summon up sufficient energy to move, but it wasn’t happening. Lying there with my mind awake and my body incapacitated, I couldn’t help but dwell on my drier-than-dirt mouth. I tried to lick my lips, but it didn’t help. There was no spit in my mouth to moisten my lips.

  I needed a drink. Water. I almost shivered, I was so excited. The thought of water was finally enough to make me think about getting up.

  At least the gnarly headache that I’d been sporting the last time I woke up was gone. But I had crystal-clear memories of that pain, and it was those memories that made me cautious. I slowly rolled onto my side. My muscles protested. The deep muscle aches made me wonder if I’d come down with the flu.

  Headache, nausea, aching muscles—I stopped inventorying my symptoms and lifted the back of my hand to my forehead and then my cheek. Dry and cool to the touch; no fever. A feverless flu? I added one item to the list: a weird feeling that I hadn’t moved since I’d fallen asleep. And I never slept on my back; I was a side sleeper.

  Flu or no flu, that water wasn’t getting any closer. In one quick motion, I rolled off my bed and onto my feet—and collapsed onto the floor. Abstract thoughts of superglued eyes and kidnapping hadn’t done it, but now I was worried. I needed a drink. How long had I been asleep? And I still didn’t feel like I needed to pee. I always had to pee as soon as I woke up. I had to be dangerously dehydrated.

  Where was my phone? I usually left it plugged in next to my bed, and it was hard to believe I’d slept through my alarm. Mustering up enough energy to crawl, I inched my way to the bedside table where my phone was plugged in. With what seemed a monumental effort, I grabbed the phone. I propped myself up against my bed and tapped the screen.

  Nuts. Fourteen missed calls, twenty texts…how…? It was late and I’d missed work, but fourteen missed calls. A nasty feeling washed over me. The wallpaper on my phone had a large digital clock that read nine fifty-three—but there was no date. I flicked the screen down. My eyes didn’t want to focus. Or my mind was playing tricks. Friday the twentieth. That simply wasn’t possible; I’d gone for happy hour drinks on Tuesday. I couldn’t have been in bed for three days. Someone would have checked on me—wouldn’t they?

  After dialing voicemail, I tapped the speaker button and then started to scroll through my texts. After five minutes it was clear: no one had thought to check on me. I’d been berated for not calling in, for missing appointments, and for failing to attend meetings. By my boss and my coworkers. By voicemail and text. I’d made a mistake, and they’d reveled in it.

  The effort of retrieving my phone had so depleted my strength that I couldn’t do more than lie on the floor. So I curled up and wallowed in self-pity. To be so alone that no one suspected I was unwell or injured after I’d been missing for three days? Miserable. Pathetic. A desolate existence. I realized as I cried that no tears fell; I hacked out dry sobs that burned my throat—because I’d never made it to the bathroom for that drink of water.

  3

  HOW AM I ALIVE?

  I was broken. Something was wrong about me, my body, what was happening. And I had two days to find out what it was. Two days, and even then I’d probably be begging to keep my job, if those texts and voicemails were any indication. I definitely needed some kind of believable excuse explaining away my three days off the grid.

  Last night I’d eventually managed to make it to the bathroom, consume an unbelievable quantity of water, and fall asleep again. Here it was, ten a.m. on Saturday, and I still hadn’t peed. What person goes four days without peeing? After googling, I discovered people did go four days and even longer without urinating—but none of the scenarios I’d found seemed likely to apply to me.

  Going to the doctor seemed wise, imperative even…except for the part where I had to get out of bed, get dressed, and actually get there. I rolled over in bed. Then I rolled again and sat up. The soreness was gone. I was exhausted, yes, but the deep muscle aches had vanished.

  Tired I could manage. I’d pulled a few all-nighters in business school and knew some tricks. Group projects still left a nasty taste in my mouth. There was always one underachiever who didn’t do their part, and never in a predictable, manageable way. I had never been one to let my work suffer from someone else’s failure—hence the all-nighters. Determination was key, but caffeine and a shower should follow closely behind.

  After I’d put the kettle on to boil and ground some fresh beans, I sat down with my laptop at the kitchen table. I drafted a quick note to my boss that I’d come down with a terrible flu, hadn’t left my bed in days, and I’d be back to work on Monday. I groveled as best I could, reread it to make sure I sounded sincerely apologetic without tumbling into desperation, and then clicked send. It all sounded reasonable enough but for one small detail: my boss had actually met me. Anyone that had spent more than a few minutes with me would know that I’d call in in between puking bouts. The only thing that could keep me from calling in was a coma. Or death. The piercing whistle of the kettle distracted me from pursuing that morbid thought.

  Five minutes later, I marched into my bathroom with my French-pressed coffee in hand, ready to tick off the next item on my list. A shower should be a nice pick-me-up. Although—oddly enough—I didn’t feel like I’d spent the last four days in bed sick. And I hadn’t noticed any weird odors. If you didn’t shower for four days, you smelled. A simple fact of life every woman past puberty understands. But what would I tell my doctor? I’m fresh as a daisy even when I don’t shower—isn’t that weird? I shook my head and turned to flip the water on.

  Hot coffee splashed my thighs as my mug fell from nerveless fingers.

  The sound of shattering ceramic echoed in my ears as if from a great distance.

  The gaunt-faced image across from me jumped, and I yelped in surprise.

  Her mouth moved as if yelping in surprise.

  I took a cautious step away from her…and she did the same in reverse.

  “Oh, no. Nononono.” I lifted my hand to my shockingly thin face. “No.”

  My knees ceased supporting my weight, and I sank down to perch on the lip of the tub. And for the fi
rst time since I’d gained consciousness the previous evening, I looked closely at my hands. Long, elegant fingers. Too thin to be my fingers. I inspected my right hand and found no age spot just below the knuckle of my index finger. No blemishes at all. The fine lines that had become invisible to me over the last few years were marked now by their absence.

  My forearms had become a series of interconnected freckles more years ago than I could remember. Since my mid-twenties, maybe? A light, even tan now covered my forearms.

  I dropped my head into my hands, but that was a mistake. My own flesh felt alien. My face had once had a pleasant roundness to it that I’d become accustomed to. The new sharpness of my chin and the definition of my cheekbones felt foreign under my fingertips.

  Inhale, two, three. Exhale, two, three. Inhale, two, three. Exhale, two, three.

  That therapist had been good for something after all, because when I opened my eyes I had a plan. I stood up and stripped off all of my clothes. I was taking a shower, because that had been the plan before I’d found some alien person’s body had replaced my own.

  I tried not to think too much as I scrubbed myself down in the shower. I was about to wash my hair when I realized that it was clean. I usually had to shampoo daily. “Not thinking, Mallory. Just showering.” And I rinsed my hair really well without shampooing it. On a whim, I went ahead and conditioned it so I’d have the perfumed illusion of having washed my hair.

  When I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, I found the hem, as always, just above my knee, but my towel wrapped much further around than it should. Without pausing to acknowledge the gaunt, dark-headed woman in the mirror, I left the bathroom for my walk-in closet.

 

‹ Prev