Adventures of a Vegan Vamp: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery

by Cate Lawley

  “Welcome to life as a Made.”

  My stomach cramped with hunger. “Um, I need a smoothie.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to have to be late for you date, becuz I need uh ssake.”

  Alex started laughing. He tried halfheartedly to stop but then just busted out. “No problem.”

  I flipped down the vanity mirror. Two tiny fangs protruded from my mouth. If I wasn’t careful, I’d reopen the small, almost-healed wounds on my bottom lip. So I kept my mouth very still while Alex laughed at me and my baby fangs.

  It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if I hadn’t seen Wembley’s adult version. His serpent-like fangs had been wicked. Fear inducing.

  Mine were more likely to be called adorable. Little fluffy bunny, indeed.

  I closed the vanity mirror with a sharp snap.

  “I’m sorry—but they’re so…cute.” And he laughed again. “I’ve seen new vamp fangs before, and I never thought I’d say that. But they’re so…darling.” He snickered.

  I sighed. A loud, very dramatic, speech-replacing sigh.

  “Right. Sorry. There’s a juice place just a few minutes up ahead. I was thinking you should give the mango spinach a try—decent calories and iron-rich. And”—he snickered again—“maybe you should start carrying a few spare cans of that supplement stuff that was littering your apartment when I picked you up this morning.”

  I didn’t reply. What would I say, other than you’re right? And that would probably come out hissy and weird with the fangs.

  Finally, he drove through and snagged a mango spinach smoothie for me. I sucked on that frozen juice, tiny baby fangs hanging out for all the world to see—if they had really powerful binoculars.

  About halfway through the shake, my fangs disappeared. I didn’t feel them retract; they just weren’t there anymore.

  “You are a nasty man to kick a girl when she’s down.”

  He gave me a sheepish look. “They’re just so tiny. Like training wheel fangs.”

  I glared, but my heart wasn’t in it. He was right. I couldn’t hang on to my mad, not after having seen Wembley’s grown-up version. “Uh-oh. Am I stuck with these? I mean, I don’t use them to eat. Will they keep growing even though I don’t drink blood?”

  “Well, you’re about week out from the bite?”

  “Give or take, sure.” Crap. Today was Tuesday. I could not forget to email work.

  “I hate to tell you this, but your fangs are closer to day-old than week-old in size.”

  “Wizards are up to date on the transformation process of vamps?”

  His body stiffened, subtly, but the change was there. “You forget; I do emergency response.”

  “Wembley says you’re also a kind of an enforcer for the Society. Is that true?”

  “It’s not my job title anymore, but there’s an aspect of that in what we do.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye then back to the road. “Why?”

  “Why? Because I want to know why you guys aren’t hunting down the perv who bit and turned me. That’s against Society regs, from what Wembley said.”

  “You’re correct. It’s highly illegal.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “You’re not the only one.”

  “I’m sorry—what?”

  “There have been some deaths. In order to transmit the virus, a vamp has to bite deep and drink long. The deeper the bite and longer the drink, the greater the load of the vampire virus that’s delivered. And if the subject is immune and receives a large load of the virus, the body has an anaphylactic response.”

  “Untreated, death results,” I whispered. “If I had the immunity to the virus that most people have…” I shuddered. “You guys have found the dead bodies of these other victims?”

  “Not exactly. There are a few deaths that we suspect are related, all discovered through targeted research. Victims that appear to have died from untreated anaphylactic shock—all women, alone, late at night, with no known allergies. I suspect there are others we’re missing. There’s one case we’re certain of. She sought treatment from Dr. Dobrescu, just like you did—but she didn’t make it.”

  I clasped my arms tight around my middle and sank deeper into my seat. “What are the police doing?”

  “They haven’t connected the deaths, not that we know.” He seemed to give his next words some serious thought. “Anton should have brought you in.”

  “Brought me in where?”

  “To the Society.”

  “Isn’t that basically what you’re doing now? With the meeting today and everything?”

  “Not exactly. You’re not a member of the Society—you were a visitor today.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t actually understand the difference, but it didn’t seem wise to say that.

  “Membership has some small advantages. But really, if you’re enhanced, you belong. The delay is a troubling reflection of some members’ perception of this current crisis.”

  “And by crisis—you mean the murders?”

  He nodded.

  “I did think it was odd that no one’s asking me questions. I haven’t filed a report with you guys or anything. How are you even investigating?” I was feeling more and more like a victim as we spoke. A victim who wasn’t looking at justice anytime soon.

  “We know you went out with your friends from work on Tuesday, probably had two drinks, went home, and emerged from your apartment on Sunday in the beginnings of a transformation that should have killed you without supplemental blood feeding. Anton expected you to go home and quietly die.”

  That summed it up. And made my blood boil—at least, the “quietly dying” part did. “How do you know all of that?”

  “Your doctor, your credit card statements, you yourself.”

  “And if Anton knew I was in distress, why didn’t he provide specialized medical assistance? He passed that number along with instructions to call in a few days. From what you’re saying, because he couldn’t be bothered to deal with me and was hoping I’d croak.” I could feel my heart pumping at double time. Anton was not a nice person. “Oh, and if I felt a murderous rage coming on, to phone you—that ER number. Oh. My. God. You’d have come and killed me, wouldn’t you?” My eyeballs started to itch from all the air and no blinking. I blinked rapidly.

  “First, what help could the Society give you? You have an aversion to blood. Only blood sustains vampires—so far as we knew till you. Second, subjects are prepared for the transformation with information, but there’s no physical prep. It’s a sink-or-swim process, other than providing blood. And that fits with vamp tradition: the weak die.” He cracked his neck, staring straight ahead. “And I’d only kill you as a last resort.”

  He was kinda sleazy with his lunchtime lays, and he laughed at me when maybe he shouldn’t—but I liked the guy. Besides being attractive, he was appealing in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. And that made his words hurt.

  We drove for several minutes in silence, because I didn’t know what to say. I was weak. I was broken. I was expendable. No one wanted justice for me. Maybe for those other people—actually, no, not even for them. My happy was suffering several major blows. And I was hungry again. That smoothie had helped, but hadn’t knocked out my hunger entirely.

  He parked the Jeep in a spot near the elevator. I never got a good spot in this parking lot, and that was twice now that he’d scored a close spot. Which irritated me even more.

  “Who were they?”

  Alex took the keys out of the ignition and handed them to me. “Who?”

  “The other victims.” I didn’t even try to keep the sharpness out of my voice.

  “We know of three. All women, all in their mid-thirties to early forties, dark-haired, successful. And again, they all died at night, alone in their homes. You’re the fourth, and fit that description, so we think it’s a pattern.”

  And now I felt weak. I’d been targeted, attacked, changed—because this nut job had a thing for my type. No one
had before, and it just figured that when someone did, it would be all about pervy needs and murder.

  “Except I didn’t die.”

  He was completely still in the driver’s seat. You don’t notice the small movements people make, until they freeze completely. Then the motionlessness is eerie and the lack of movement noticeable. Finally, he said, “No. You didn’t die.”

  It had been freeing to be rid of the anxieties that, in retrospect, I’d clearly been living with for a long time. But that freedom, the joy of it, was fading. There was a killer out there. He’d violated me. Killed me—my human self, anyway. Completely ended the lives of at least three other women. And he was footloose and fancy-free.

  “Your eyes are glowing.”

  I whipped my head around and stared at him. “Yeah? Is that a problem?”

  Alex sighed. “Get it under control before you run into anyone. Hang on.” He got out of my car, pulled out his own keys, and unlocked a Honda Accord parked a few spots away. He rummaged around in the center console and emerged with a pair of sunglasses. “Here.”

  I’d followed him to his car, and now took the tinted glasses. I put them on without a word, and turned on my heel. I had things to do—like catch a killer.

  Then I spoiled my fabulous exit, because I realized that I needed those names. I stopped, turned, and said, “Text me their names.”

  He didn’t ask who; he just nodded.

  And then I turned on my heel for the second time and marched away.

  10

  FAREWELL, MRS. ARBUTHNOT

  Fired up and on a mission, I didn’t notice all of the noise when I first got off the elevator on the fourth floor. But I could hardly miss the hubbub once I turned the corner. I backed away, hoping no one had seen me. As quickly as I could, I tucked away the sunglasses Alex had loaned me and pulled out my compact. My eyes looked just fine. A little more bloodshot than usual, maybe, but the pupils were a normal size and the irises the same shade of blue they’d always been.

  I took a breath to steady my nerves and turned the corner again.

  Sally, whose last name I’d never known and who lived a few doors down, was in the hall talking to old Mr. Simms. And the shut-in from the end of the hall whose first name I couldn’t recall at the moment was standing a few feet away from the other two, listening and looking forlorn.

  Another group had formed, but they were all from the other side of the floor—so I really didn’t know them at all.

  Where was the perpetually nosy Mrs. A? Her absence was the equivalent of the news failing to report a presidential election’s results—or roughly that. She was the floor busybody.

  I approached Sally, Mr. Simms, and unknown shut-in guy. “Where is Mrs. A?”

  But I knew as soon as the words left my lips—this hallway gathering, this hubbub, it was about her.

  Sally looked at me like I was an alien from another planet, but Mr. Simms replied. “Hi, Mallory. There’s some bad news. Mrs. A was found a little earlier in her apartment. It looks like maybe a suicide.”

  “No. That’s not right. Mrs. A would never do that.” And I knew I was right. Like I knew that I wanted that Grand Cherokee, and I knew I wanted to live in a place like that quiet south Austin neighborhood. No way did Mrs. A kill herself. The woman was vibrant. She embraced every day, was mindful of her health, ate well, exercised. No way.

  “I know it’s shocking, but that’s the way it’s looking. Pills…” Mr. Simms cast his eyes downward. He lived alone—most of us on this floor did because they were all one-bedrooms—but he didn’t get out a lot. Mrs. A, with her busybody ways, was probably one of his few social outlets.

  I hugged him.

  What could I say? The guy looked like he needed a hug. And he hugged me back, so I was probably right.

  “Who are you?” Sally asked.

  “Mallory Andrews.” I let go of Mr. Simms and pointed to my apartment door. We’d definitely been introduced at least three times. And had run into each other innumerable times in the hallway and elevator.

  “That was sort of rhetorical.” Sally eyed me from head to toe. “You look different, dress different, and act different. It’s that new guy you’re dating, isn’t it?”

  Was she channeling my mother?

  Then I remembered. “Ah, you chatted with Mrs. A. I think she misunderstood…” But I realized suddenly that Mrs. A might have misunderstood, but it didn’t matter. Not at all. Because Mrs. A was dead. My breath caught in my chest.

  “She told me all about the man you came home with the other night.” Sally spoke in low tones, giving Mrs. A some deference—but Sally was all about the gossip. Which actually made it easier to breathe. Mrs. A had been all about the gossip, too.

  Mr. Simms shook his head and walked away. I liked to think it was Sally’s poor taste and not the false information about me bringing a man home that had him on the run.

  But then shut-in guy stepped up. “Bradley,” he said.

  From that awkward interjection, I gathered that was both his name and an attempt to introduce himself.

  I held out my hand. “Hello, Bradley. I’m—”

  “Mallory Andrews. I know.” He seemed to give the decision as to whether to shake my hand or not serious consideration, then grabbed it, pumped it once, and let go.

  Awkward pretty much summed him up.

  “Did you know Mrs. A?” I asked.

  “Arbuthnot. Mrs. Arbuthnot liked it that I called her by her real last name and not Mrs. A. She said you brought a date home on Tuesday night, and that he was ‘good-looking enough for that type.’ But she didn’t say what type, and I don’t know what that means, really. But she seemed happy for you.”

  My eyes teared up. Or they tried to. They ended up kinda burning and itching more than anything. I knew she didn’t approve of my single state. And that she could be judgmental about certain other things—my weight, for one—but she’d been a kind woman. And she had been nosy because she cared about her neighbors. Why did she have to care about me and then go and die?

  I rubbed my eyes, but that only made them burn more.

  Sally looked at me uncertainly. “Do you need a hanky or something?”

  I was about to decline, but a nasty thought occurred. “Wait a minute. I really don’t have a boyfriend.” I turned to Bradley. “Are you sure she said Tuesday?”

  Bradley nodded. “I’m good with the little things. Mrs. Arbuthnot liked that. I remembered her birthday and that she liked irises. They’re a showy flower, but she liked them all the same. That’s what she used to say. So I bought her irises for her birthday every year.”

  I looked at Bradley with new eyes. “How long have you lived here, Bradley?”

  “Eight years, just like Mrs. Arbuthnot. She moved in when her husband passed, because what better way to stay young than to live in the center of all the excitement. She used to say that.”

  “I’d forgotten that.” Sally smiled sadly. “I heard her say that.”

  I felt a burn again, but this time it was in my gut—and for the first time since my change, it wasn’t hunger. “No way she killed herself.”

  I couldn’t say anything to these completely non-paranormal or occult-involved people, but I’d bet Mrs. A saw the vile thing who’d bit me. And he was apparently “good-looking enough for that type.” My scalp crawled.

  “I think you’re right.” Bradley pulled a key out of his pocket. “I have a key to her apartment, and she said I could use it if ever there was an emergency. This is an emergency.” Bradley blinked owlishly at me.

  “Bradley, I’d hug you, but I don’t think you’d like it much, would you?”

  “No. Thank you.” He shifted from foot to foot. “So you’ll help look inside her apartment? To see why the paramedics think she hurt herself? Because that’s not right. Mrs. Arbuthnot wouldn’t do that. She promised to bring me chicken soup tomorrow.”

  “Whoa. Stop now,” Sally said. “I’m on the homeowners’ association board, so I’m just going to
disappear and pretend I didn’t hear any of that.” She reached out and squeezed Bradley’s shoulder. “But good luck.” Then she vanished in a cloud of expensive perfume.

  “I like Sally. She always smells nice.”

  “Yeah, Bradley, I guess she does.” I glanced down the hall to see if the other group had dispersed, and it looked like they were making motions in that direction. Just another minute or two.

  “You were a little mean before. You’re nicer now.”

  I turned back to look at him. I didn’t remember ever actually speaking to him. “I’m really sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay. If you can fix this, I forgive you.”

  But no one could fix this. Mrs. A was dead, probably murdered by the crazy man who’d bitten me.

  “I’ll do whatever I can, Bradley. You have my word.”

  And I would—even if that involved breaking and entering.

  11

  NOT BREAKING, DEFINITELY ENTERING

  I took the key Bradley had given me and opened Mrs. A’s door. Bradley followed close behind and quietly pulled the door shut.

  I’d been in her condo several times. She liked to stay involved with the condo community, and as a result, she hosted the occasional floor social and a monthly bridge night—but that was more appealing to the older crowd and a few couples in their twenties. But I was one of the few who received private invitations. She’d sometimes have me over for a glass of wine and a chat.

  Her condo looked as it always did, with one notable exception: the bathroom. Pills were scattered on the tile floor and one towel was askew on the rack, with the other piled on the floor. It looked like she might have grabbed at the towels or the bar where they hung as she’d fallen.

  Bradley came up behind me and looked over my shoulder into the bathroom.

  “Who takes a bunch of pills and stands around waiting for them to take effect?” I asked.

  “Who takes pills without a drink?” Bradley replied. “I always drink a full glass of water.”