Adventures of a Vegan Vamp: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery

by Cate Lawley

  I must have had a hungry-desperate look, because the waitress came back. “Another?”

  Alex shook his head and then said to me, “Wembley’s expecting you.”

  I swallowed a groan as the waitress disappeared. “Do I really need a babysitter?” Then I remembered: Mrs. A. The memory of her death came and went. I’d forget— No, not forget—it wouldn’t be at the front of my brain. Then it would be there—the reality that she was gone. “Never mind. Thanks.” I hurried to catch up as Alex headed to the exit.

  “Wembley’s glad for the company.” He opened the front door for me. “His business partner, who was also his roommate, just left Austin for Chicago. He won’t say, but he hates living alone.”

  “I don’t suppose he lives in the suburbs?” I got into the passenger seat of my car and buckled up.

  Wembley did in fact live in the suburbs, as I discovered when I plugged the address Alex gave me into the map on my phone. He lived in a small neighborhood not far from the Society’s headquarters, if my GPS wasn’t lying.

  After a rather silly discussion that lasted much of the drive to my condo, wherein I argued my ability to drive from point A (my townhome) to point B (Wembley’s home) and pointed out that in doing so, Alex could reclaim his own car and therefore be more likely to make his date on time, finally, Alex agreed to let me venture off alone. But it had taken most of the drive for me to talk him around to the practicality of that option.

  He’d still insisted on accompanying me upstairs, and stood in my condo and waited for me to pack toiletries—that I suspected I did not need—and my meager supply of correctly sized clothes. He then escorted me to my car and even closed the driver’s door for me. I felt like a sixteen-year-old off on her first overnight trip. All that was missing was seeing him wave in my rearview mirror as I drove away.

  But when I looked back, he was in his car, talking on his phone. Likely with his hot date.

  Good thing I wasn’t sixteen and in love, or my feelings might have been hurt.

  It took me about twenty minutes to get to Wembley’s neighborhood. After that, it was all over. I became that Sunday driver that everyone hates. The one who drives five miles an hour and stops to look at every passing butterfly. And my butterflies were “For Sale” signs.

  House, for sale, in Austin. The kind of house that had a sign out front actually advertising the house for sale. Not the kind where the realtor puts the sign out saying the listing will be coming soon…and then the house is snapped up before you can blink.

  I thought I might be in heaven.

  A heaven with intermittently overgrown lawns, lots of street-parked cars, and a great number of visible trash cans. But it spoke to me. I wasn’t sure if it was saying “buy a house” or if it was saying “rent”—but it was speaking.

  As I pulled into Wembley’s drive, I got a text from Alex: Where are you?

  I replied: Wembley’s. Why? Where are you?

  I could imagine the exasperated look on his face as I read his response: Did you walk?

  Have fun with your girlfriend. Bye-bye. I pressed send with a smirk.

  I grabbed my tiny overnight bag and marched up to the door. It was an unpleasant brown orange, and peeling. Wembley needed to have a look at it.

  Wembley opened the door before I could knock. “Thank goodness. I thought Alex was going to cancel his plans and drive out here if you were any longer.” He opened the door wide and stepped to the side. “Welcome to Casa Wembley.”

  A ladder rested against the wall, and I had to sidestep to squeeze by it. Half the popcorn had been removed from the hallway ceiling, and tarps were spread on the ground to catch most of the mess.

  “Alex didn’t tell me you were redecorating. I’m so sorry to put you out.”

  “No, not at all. I’m always redecorating. I flip houses for grins—and free housing, but mostly for grins.” He lifted the drink in his hand. “Margarita?”

  This neighborhood, this house, seemed like the perfect answer to my current housing dilemma.

  “I would absolutely love a margarita. But I’d also like to know a little more about this house.”

  Wembley pulled a pitcher from the fridge. “No need to hide your eyes every time I pop the fridge open. I have some fully human contractors, so no blood in the kitchen. The good stuff is in the garage.” He pulled out a key on a chain from under his shirt. “Inconvenient—but such is the life of a house flipper.”

  “Ahhh…” Blood. Refrigerating in the garage. Under lock and key. “Uhhh…”

  “Close your mouth. You may have your hang-ups with the sweet human juice that gives me life—but you have to get over that if you want to have any vamp friends.” His expressive eyebrows squinched together, as if they had a mind of their own and were considering the very nature of life. “Not that most vamps are worth the trouble, but the concept is sound.”

  “Sorry.” I gave him my shamefaced look, but only got a quirked eyebrow in response.

  “On the bright side, I do have a grocery delivery coming by this evening, so you won’t starve. I thought we’d experiment a little with your diet—maybe expand it.”

  I took the plastic cup he handed me. “So I’m your science experiment, huh?”

  “Absolutely. But also, your little sunken cheeks make me want to fatten you up.”

  “That sounds a little too Hansel and Gretel to be comforting.”

  “Whoa, nelly. You know vamps can’t feed off each other, right? Not quite poisonous, but upsets the digestion.” He patted his paunchy stomach.

  “I did not know that, but it’s an interesting factoid.”

  He invited me to sit in one of the folding lawn chairs he had set up around a card table in the kitchen.

  I plopped down into what was probably the most comfortable lawn chair I had ever occupied.

  “Nice, right? My friend makes them; I can hook you up. But about the house—what do you want to know?”

  “When’s it up for sale, how much, all the dirt…everything.”

  “Alex told me you were looking to move. Are you asking for yourself?” I nodded, and he said, “You don’t want this one. I have another one that I just finished up. It’s going on the market as soon as I get done packing up. I’ve been living there until the renovations on this one were far enough along for me to move in—and since they just finished up the master bath, here I am.”

  “So you move from house to house to house…”

  Wembley shrugged. “Not always. I move when it suits me. I’m experiencing a footloose and fancy-free mood currently.”

  I finished off my margarita and wondered when exactly those groceries would be arriving. My stomach seemed to have a personality of its own now. A demanding, tetchy personality. “Wait a second, how long has this particular mood lasted?”

  He scratched his beard. “2008, or was it 2010? More than five years, less than ten. As long as I break even, I’m happy—but I usually make a little money.”

  Clearly, Wembley had some other means of support. I hated to ask, but at some point, someone was going to have to explain how long we lived, stayed hidden, paid taxes.

  “The new bathroom is gorgeous. I’ll give you a tour in a bit.”

  The doorbell rang, and Wembley rubbed his hands together. “Groceries!”

  But he didn’t head straight for the front door. He detoured to the kitchen, pulled a revolver out of one of the drawers, and said, “Wait here.”

  “No way.” I wasn’t missing how this was going down. What the heck was he thinking?

  “All right, at least open the door for me if I ask.”

  “Will do.”

  “Just a minute!” Wembley hugged the hall wall and motioned for me to do the same. “Who is it?”

  “Hey, Mr. Wembley. It’s Chris from the grocery store. I have your delivery.”

  Wembley inhaled deeply, seemed satisfied with the result, and proceeded to check the peephole. He tucked the revolver in his waistband, pulled his shirt over the resu
lting bulge, and opened the door. “Good to see you again, Chris.” He pulled some crumpled bills out of his front pocket and handed them to the kid after I’d taken the box he was carrying.

  “I’ve got one more in the car, sir.”

  “I’ll just walk on out with you.” Wembley motioned for me to stay inside.

  He came back a few moments later carrying the second box of groceries. “Do you have no sense of self-preservation?”

  “Do you really keep a gun in your kitchen drawer?” I closed the front door behind him and picked up the first box from where I’d deposited it in the hallway.

  “It’s the only weapon I have that I can still use competently. Swords take regular practice, useful as they are. Guns as well, but less so. I’m low-key these days. I stay out of the major conflict zones. But Alex said carry a weapon.”

  “Do we live in the same city? What major conflict zones?”

  “It’s not about geography—not usually. It’s about allegiances.” Wembley stashed the revolver back in the kitchen drawer. “Remind me to put that thing back in the safe tomorrow. I’d hate for one of the workers to stumble on it. It would completely ruin the chill, hippie vibe I have going.”

  “Right, because that’s the biggest concern with an unsecured weapon in your house.”

  “Don’t judge; it’s not a good look on you.” He scratched his beard. “Any chance you can handle a sword? I might have just the thing—”

  “No.”

  “You don’t know until you try. It might be fun.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “I’m starving. Food experimentation first, and if I’m not too exhausted from puking my guts up—I’ll have a look.”

  “Ha!” Wembley clapped his hands. “I knew it. I can tell. There’s a little precog in my family.” He tapped the side of his nose.

  “Sure thing, Wembley. So what did you get?” I started to root around in the box I’d placed on the new granite counter. “Eggs—are you thinking eggnog?”

  “Sure. Let’s do eggnog.” He looked taken with the idea.

  “Did you have any kind of plan?”

  “Nope. Just picked out a bunch of stuff and figured we’d give it a go. But I do have a primo food processor that will just about liquefy stone. So I think we’re set up for success here.”

  And it turned out that we were set up for success. Mostly. Raw beef, cooked beef, any kind of beef, even if pureed until it looked like vile soup gone bad—no luck.

  I really used to love beef. We gave it enough tries that I inadvertently subjected myself to aversion therapy, so beef was off the menu for the foreseeable future. Eggnog tasted fabulous going down, less so coming up. But we had great luck with fruits and veggies. And spinach and mangos were especially appealing. Much more so than in my previous, fully human life. The vegan cheese didn’t come back up, but it was rough going down. The smell alone almost convinced me not to eat it. Figured that would be one of the winners.

  I would hardly call the feeling I experienced satiation, but after we put a solid dent in the fruit and vegetable supply Wembley had ordered, I was almost not hungry.

  “I think there has to be a way to add in some fats and protein. Those should help you feel more satisfied.”

  “And I need more calories. I can’t eat nonstop all day to fulfill my calorie requirements. I need something densely packed with nutrients and calories. I think that’s why the vegan nutrition supplement shakes were helping a little.”

  Wembley scribbled on a pad of paper. “A list of dos and don’ts and never-ever-agains.”

  I took it and pocketed it. “Perfect. Thank you. I’m in a positively buoyant state of mind. There’s some kind of food in my future, which is very good news.”

  “Buoyant sounds like a good state of mind to meet a sword or two. Come on.”

  Wembley headed for the garage, and I balked.

  “No chance you’ve stashed your swords with the blood…”

  “No. It’s fine. Come on.” He opened the garage door and said over his shoulder, “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

  I followed him into the dark garage feeling a little like the kid who said yes to the candy.

  Then the lights came on, and all I could do was stare. He’d revamped the roomy two-car garage to be one part place to park your car and one part incredibly cool workshop.

  “Aren’t you worried about all of this being in the garage?”

  “Nah. I’ve got a separate window unit to run when it’s steamy—you know, six months out of the year—and I think that’ll keep it reasonably comfortable.”

  “I meant theft, but that’s also good to know.”

  “No, it’s pretty secure. New anti-theft garage doors. Trying to be security conscious and all that. That’s why I’ve got the blood and the swords out here.”

  “You have more than one sword.” I shook my head. “And what’s with the swords? I’d think guns would be much more useful.”

  “Bite your tongue.” Wembley unlocked a chest and pulled out a sword and scabbard. “This one is a beauty.”

  I nodded in appreciation, though all I could see was the embossed leather scabbard. Then he pulled out a second, much more worn—battered, even—scabbard.

  I reached for it.

  “Careful now,” he said, removing it from my reach. “Introductions should always be respectful, and that means no grabbing.”

  If his hands hadn’t been full of sword, I suspected he would have smacked my hand.

  “Sorry.”

  And it was the second time he’d referenced the sword as if it were a person. Who met a sword or was introduced? Vamp culture was so weird. I bit my tongue and waited.

  “Tangwystl. That’s the name of this particular sword. We’ll just give her a second to see if she has any interest in you.”

  I pinched my lips together.

  “What? Spit it out.”

  “Her?”

  “That’s right. She’s alive. Well, as alive as magic can make her.” He pulled the sword from its protective casing. And I could swear I heard soft singing, foreign words whispered then gone.

  Wembley smiled. “I think she might like you.” He offered her the sword, hilt first. “Go ahead.”

  Without grabbing, I reached for the handle and wrapped my fingers carefully around it. It felt lovely. As if it was weightless, yet had a solid heft. As if I could hold it in my hand forever, but hack a giant in half. It was a giddy feeling.

  Light shone off the etchings in the metal—no, the etchings themselves shone.

  “Is this sword glowing?”

  “I told you she likes you. I think you’re about to be adopted.”

  I tore my eyes away from the greenish-blue fire that seemed to swirl and dance, tracing each symbol as if it was re-etching the markings as I watched. “Adopted?”

  “Would you like this sword? Quickly—don’t think; just answer.”

  “Yes.” My eyes turned back to the fiery blue-green display.

  “Thank the gods. I’ve been looking for a home for her for ages. Poor thing has been in the trunk for a few decades, at least.”

  18

  MY FIRST MAGIC SWORD EVER

  “I’m sorry—did you just say you locked her up? In a chest? She’s alive, and you stowed her like some old high school trophy? Shame on you.”

  As I spoke, Wembley shifted uncomfortably. “In fairness, I don’t think her sense of time is like ours…?” He shrugged halfheartedly.

  …lovely…pretty…kind…

  “Um, can she speak English?”

  Wembley looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Only if you can.”

  I swallowed a grumble. “And her name, Tangwystl, that’s English, Welsh, Scottish?”

  “Welsh.”

  Finally, a simple, straightforward answer.

  “So she’s Welsh?”

  “How would I know? She’s not my sword.”

  I could feel a growl growing in my chest. I had a passing thought as to whether my
eyes might possibly be red.

  …pretty…blue…pretty…

  “Aw. Thanks.” I smiled at Wembley. “She says I have pretty blue eyes.”

  “A sword that flatters.” Wembley didn’t seem to know what to say about that. Eventually he sucked air through his teeth, and said, “I can tell you that I suspect she predates her Welsh name. She’s a takouba.”

  I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t know what that is.” I traced the scrollwork with the tip of my finger and whispered to Tangwystl, “Sorry.”

  She might have purred.

  “Right. The takouba is not a Welsh sword. Might look European, but she isn’t. Google it. Maybe Taureg—but I couldn’t say. Each time she’s come to me, she’s been Tangwystl.”

  Best name

  “You can’t hear her, can you?” When he shook his head, I said, “I think that’s her favorite name. Wait—each time? What does that mean?”

  Wembley sighed. “She keeps coming back. As finicky as she is with her partners, you’d think they’d last longer. Although, come to think of it, you might be the first vamp.” Wembley peered at me. “You’re definitely the first vamp. She likes a certain type—and vamps don’t usually fit the bill.”

  I fingered the scrollwork again. “And what type is that?”

  He considered the question. “Someone with a certain zest for life.”

  I pursed my lips. “Zest…is that a nice way to say rambunctious enthusiasm?”

  “It’s a compliment. Take it and run.” Wembley packed away the first blade he’d removed, a much larger one than Tangwystl.

  “So, let’s assume that her partners aren’t dropping like flies—just living natural human-length lives. Why and how does she get back to you?”

  “Magic.” I gave him a peeved look, and he said, “Fine. One time through the post. Actually messenger, because there wasn’t a postal system. And another time she showed up as loot in a raid. Another time she was a gift from a grateful…ah, lady friend. Another time—”

  “Whoa. That’s enough; I get the picture.” I couldn’t help picturing Wembley with his lady friend. Thankfully my imagination steered away from nudity—but even so, I quickly shifted focus to the second question. “Any thoughts on why? Why she keeps coming back to you when you’re not the partner she wants? Uh—you’re not, are you?”