Fuck. I rarely use this word or even think it, but now seems appropriate. I am unprepared for an attack, and there is only one exit in this dump: a small window in the bathroom, hardly large enough for a skinny cat.
I could punch through the wall or—
“Vanderhorsthsssth!”
“Mr. Nice?” I jerk open the door and find a dirty, gangly man in tattered lace.
“Sank zi gods!” Nice rushes in, nearly knocking me over. “Do you have any Nice T?” He goes straight to my small fridge and finds the bag of fresh blood. Before I can warn him that the donor is unknown, he’s punctured the film and is sucking like a baby. “Num, num, num…”
He must be starving. Because Nice is about as eccentric as they come—from his very strange accent to his rule about only dining on blood from people whose names start with the letter T (aka “Nice T”) to the nightmare of lace and leather he wears on his tall wiry frame. With his long black hair, he literally looks like he walked off the set of an ’80s goth video, though I think most would agree that his fashion is the least frightening thing about him.
He’s old.
He’s powerful.
He’ll rip your head off with the flick of a pinky if he doesn’t get his way. All the more surprising that he doesn’t care whose blood he’s drinking.
“I must habe more!” Nice tosses the empty pouch on the floor.
“That was my last bag, sir, but allow me to call my assistant and find out who’s on the menu.”
“No!” He points a finger in my face. “No one can know I’m here. Zi spies are everywhere, Vanderhorsthsssth.” His dark eyes dart wildly from side to side.
I was so startled by his presence that for a moment the war thing slipped my mind. “Hold on. Where did you come from? Who took you? How did you escape?”
Nice drags his fist across his mouth, wiping away a few dribbles of blood. His long black hair is matted with dirt and his leather pants are more brown than black—their true color. I know this because Mr. Nice is not a brown pants type of man. He’d consider it showing weakness to wear anything the color of excrement.
“They took me while I was at a private screening of Fanged Love. They put something over my head so I wouldn’t know the location.”
“Dear Jesus. They’re making the book into a movie?” I shake my head. “Sorry. That’s frightening, but not important. Where do you think they took you?”
“It was cold, dark, and one of the men smelled like curry.”
“Indian curry?”
“No. More like coconut with lemon grass.”
“Thailand.” A good choice for hiding out. Very inconspicuous. Not many vampires like Thailand, given the heat.
“Impossible. I was only in the air for six hours, seven maximum.”
Hmm…interesting. My inner Sherlock scratches his chin and lights his pipe. “Where did they take you from?”
“I cannot say.”
“You do not recall where you went to the movies?” I ask.
“I recall, but I cannot say. My turf is confidential. A vampire of my age and standing can never be too careful.”
“Nice, sir, with all due respect, we are at war. Every detail you provide will assist us in winning.”
“Ugh…the Nice is tired of winning. For once it would be nice to lose. Such a refreshment, no?”
I frown with confusion. “No. Not in my experience.”
“Ah. But have you ever lost?” He holds up a long skinny index finger to punctuate his point.
“No.”
“Then how would you know?”
I feel like we are going down a rabbit hole. For crazy vampire rabbits. “I suppose I do not, but let us assume that I can enjoy the experience of losing some other time. This particular war is one I feel strongly about winning.”
“Party pooper,” he grumbles.
“All the way. Now, if you don’t mind, would you give me an approximate location for your abduction?”
“Nice enjoys the nightlife—zi jazz, zi blues, zi essanem clubs, you know.”
“Zi essanem clubs?” I have no clue what that is, and to this day, I still cannot figure out his accent. According to the rumor mill, Nice—short for Nicephorus—was a Byzantine general in the 800s, but that does not explain his manner of speech. It’s like he has multiple personalities from different countries and they’re all trying to speak at the same time.
“Zi essanem. You know. With zi whips and chains.” He snaps an invisible whip in the air.
“Oh, S and M.” But those sorts of establishments can be found in many big cities. “Mr. Nice, I promise to never reveal the whereabouts of your hometown.”
“I weel tell you if you go out and bring back Nice a juicy T-bone. I am very hungry.”
“You want steak?”
“I am a vampire, silly. I want to dine on someone named T-Bone.”
All righty… Perhaps he was hit in the head during his escape. “Sure. No problem,” I say to placate him.
“New Orleans. That is my home.”
Of course. Where else would a crazy old vampire live? “So…six or seven hours by plane leaves a lot of options.”
“I think we headed east.”
I narrow my eyes. Why the hell didn’t he just say so? “Did they take you to the UK?”
“I believe so. Did I not say this already?”
“No. No, you did not. Any other details you might want to share, such as the place they held you or how you escaped and made it back to Phoenix?”
“There were other council members there. We were questioned and thrown in a pit with our ankles and wrists chained together. It was cold and dark.”
A pit? It seems as though our enemies are looking for a Great War do-over, copying many strategies. There were once large dirt pits near our headquarters in Blackpool, England, a leftover from the Great War. We had run out of vampire-proof prison cells and had to opt for throwing our enemies into what were essentially deep wells. With one’s arms and legs bound, it was impossible to climb out. I do not know what covers these pits today, but I assumed they were capped and built over.
“How did you escape?” I repeat.
“Diss is the part I do not understand. Someone helped me. I could not see them and they did not speak. They also had their scent masked with Jovan Musk for men.”
Jovan Musk. A trick Clive taught me when I worked as a detective. Drakkar Noir works well, too. One dab and no vampire will be able to catch your scent due to the potent smell and ensuing headache. So who else did Clive teach this trick to?
There is only one person I can think of. Only one person who was close to Clive like I was: Alex.
But why would he help Nice escape?
“So this person got you out and then what?” I ask.
“They put me back on a plane. We landed and they transported me in a van and tossed me outside your building.”
“They brought you directly to me? None of this makes sense. Unless it is a message.” Could Alex possibly be working as a double spy? Could he have delivered Nice so I would figure out where the council members were taken?
Alex would know I’d find meaning in Jovan Musk. He’d know the pits would ring a bell, too. In fact, it was he and I who coined the phrase “it’s the pits,” i.e., the worst possible situation to be in. Somehow, it caught on and is still a common phrase used today.
“Then I will travel to Blackpool and attempt to verify the council members’ location before we make a move.” However, I will need to travel quietly because I agree with Nice; spies are everywhere and the chances of getting captured will be extremely high.
“You do whatever you like, but I want my T-Bone and a long nap. Nice needs to hibernate for a few days.”
I bow my head. “Of course, sir. I will get your meal at once, but I’m afraid there’s little time for naps. We have much to prepare.”
“Ah, pfft!” Nice swipes his hand through the air. “Wars come and go.”
“That is precisely the
point. We need to make it go away.”
“Yes, but how long until another group comes and challenges us?”
“Hopefully never if we’re running things the right way,” I reply.
“Ha. Ha. Hahahahaha…” He laughs and then turns deadly serious. “Get me my food or I will disembowel you through your belly button.”
“You do realize I am the king, and—”
“Now, Vanderhorsthsssth!” He holds up his grubby pinky with a razor-sharp fingernail.
“Yes, sir.” I turn to leave before I am left staring at my own intestines. That is not the last thing I wish to see before dusting—a term used to describe the way we die. We simply turn into a cloud of gray dust.
“By the way,” he says, “what happened to your little librarian, eh? I hope zi Fanged Love wedding is still a go.”
Dear God. Not even war or being kidnapped has made him forget. Long story short, I may have told him that Miriam is my soul mate. In truth, I do not know what she is to me, but there were questions being raised about how involved she was in the blood farm, given her ex-boyfriend’s participation. I’ll point out that vampire justice is not the same as the human sort. One must only look guilty to be convicted. So, in order to keep her out of hot water, I had to claim her as my own and vouch for her. As part of this claiming, I also had to promise to turn her and then marry her in exchange for leniency from the council. Of course, much has happened since then, but Nice is still expecting a big Fanged Love–themed wedding according to the book—lots of red lace and horse carriages involved. Blech.
Thankfully, now I’ve got an out…
I clear my throat, wanting to approach the subject carefully. “Unfortunately, Mr. Nice, sir, I have run into a small problem. Given this war and the fact we may be attacked at any moment, I am afraid a lavish, well-publicized wedding is out of the question. We would all be sitting ducks, and I cannot put my bride-to-be in such danger. Therefore, I have decided to elope with her in a secret ceremony.” So secret, even she’s unaware.
“Oh…” He claps wildly. “Diss is very romantic! I will have to be there, your witness to zi Fanged Love of real life.”
Oh no. No, no, no. Nice cannot be there. He will terrify poor Miriam, not to mention say something to tip her off.
“I do not think it is a good idea for you to leave the apartment,” I say. “Not when there are naps to be had and spies to hide from.”
“Do not be silly. I wouldn’t dream of missing it. When is the big day?”
This upcoming evening. “Next week. I think perhaps Monday.” I will simply have to risk disappointing him.
“Very nice. Ah, see! I made zi joke there. Now off with you, Vanderhorsthsssth. I must have my rest, and I am getting vangry.”
“Vangry? As in, very angry?” I ask.
“As in vampire hangry.” He shakes a finger at me. “You really should keep up with the cool slang, Vanderhorsthsssth, especially with your cover story.”
“I will hit the internet as soon as I return,” I say to placate him.
“I would never hit that. So dirty.” He plunks down on my disgusting brown couch.
I blink, grateful for the opportunity to leave. “Be right back with your juicy T-Bone.”
I head out to the parking lot and call Viviana. She is the keeper of the list, the “menu,” of humans approved for killing. The call goes into voicemail, so I text her…
Me: 911! Need menu. Must look like he’s possibly named “T-Bone.”
Viviana: T-Bone?
Me: Don’t ask.
Viviana: I’m actually afraid to. Get back soon with menu options.
Next, I text Lula, who should be on a plane and en route.
Me: Nice was freed and brought to my studio. Possibly Alex is behind it? Sounds like council is in the pits. Call when you land. Go straight to my new apartment.
Lula: Nice is there? Right now? And of course the council members are sad. They’re prisoners.
Me: Yes. He’s here. And I meant the pits near UK HQ. We need to confirm before POT is formed.
Lula: Now you’re growing weed? You do know that’ll make you fat.
Me: Stop it.
Lula: Make me. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, and last time I checked, you can’t fly.
I groan. She’s trying my patience.
Me: POT = Plan of Tackle
Lula: You really need to stop trying to be cool. It’s plan of attack, Mikey. GWI = get with it, for you old farts
I may be old, but I am no fart. I am more of a fine wine or a classic novel filled with whimsy and sophistication.
Me: Just be prepared for dangerous mission after wedding.
This time, Lula has nothing to say. I suspect she is unhappy about the ceremony. Like I said, vampires do not like sharing.
I decide to let it go and simply trust in my bond with Lula—a new thing for me. Up until recently, I trusted no one even if they’d already proven themselves. Alex’s descent has not helped my reluctance, but Lula’s loyalty and willingness to place herself in harm’s way—for me, for our family, and for our kind—has taught me a thing or two. If I ever doubt anyone again, it will not be her.
CHAPTER SIX
Around six in the morning, Nice has cocooned himself in my narrow closet, sleeping upright with his arms crossed over his chest. Very disturbing. Lula is just arriving to my new apartment, freshening up, and will meet me at the library around noon to plan for tonight and for our trip to the UK. Otto has texted and informed me that my private guard unit is on the way, arriving this evening. I am showered and dressed in my white “When I think about books, I touch my shelf” T-shirt, plus jeans, and boots. The shirt is for Miriam. I think today of all days requires as much distraction as possible if I am to pull off the vampire wedding ceremony without her knowledge.
I just pray today goes well. Already I’m starting off with a dead body in the trunk of my blue nightmare. They really must make the storage larger for these cars. I could barely fit the poor bastard “T-Bone” inside. Had to get creative with the direction of his limbs.
I glance at my watch. Jesus. I’m already late. I hit the road and head straight for Miriam’s place, stopping along the way for a triple latte and a hot tea for her. I need a reason to be at her house so early.
When I arrive, I punch in the code to her gate and drive through. She’s just coming out the front door as I pull up. The home is an impressive example of modern Southwest architecture with nods toward the adobe style—big windows, wooden beams, and a flat square roof, but the cactus gardens and wrought-iron doors have more of a modern upscale flair.
“Well, good morning,” I say through the passenger side window I have left open. Don’t want my car smelling of leftovers.
“Michael, what are you doing here?”
“Was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d bring you some caffeine.” I hold up the tea.
She narrows her eyes, and her plump little lips pucker. I am hypnotized. There’s nothing more enticing than a feisty librarian—brains and gumption. My shaft stirs in my jeans.
“Just happen to be in the neighborhood? You promised you wouldn’t lie any more, Michael.” Miriam crosses her arms over her narrow chest. I try not to notice the bit of cleavage showing along the neckline of her pink blouse. The shirt is too big on her and sags a bit in the front. Her iron gray skirt is just as unflattering, hitting her below the knees. A pair of black sensible flats and reading glasses hanging from her neck complete the nerdist look.
For the life of me, I cannot comprehend why she feels the need to hide herself away under all those frumpy clothes. I’ve seen this woman in a tight evening dress, so I know she has quite the little body going on.
“Fine,” I say, “I am here because I wanted to apologize again about yesterday. I went too far.”
“You said that already, but then you had Lula call and keep the prank going. Why would you do that?”
“It was a little miscommunication. Won’t happen again.” I offe
r her my sincerest please-forgive-me smile.
“No more vampire talk? Promise?”
I bob my head. “Promise.”
She reaches for the handle of my door and hops in.
Oh crap. I freeze. I had not intended to drive her in. I merely thought to say hi, drop off her tea, and follow her to the library.
“Well?” She grabs her tea. “Are we going or not?”
“Uh, sure…just keep the windows down. I think the last person who used this car was transporting roadkill.” Or dead bodies nicknamed after steak.
“What happened to that SUV you were using?” she asks.
“It’s in the shop. This is the only loaner they had.”
“Ah. Nice shirt, by the way.” She smirks. She knows I wore it just for her.
I hit the accelerator, and we’re on our way. I try to keep my cool, but I’m watching everything and everyone around us.
“So, how was your birthday?” I ask, wondering if the no-more-lies policy applies to herself.
“Great.”
“Where did you and your friend go?” I inquire.
“Why do you ask?”
She’s avoiding the question, but not lying.
I shrug. “No reason. I guess I’m always on the lookout for good eats. Yanno?”
“Mmmm…” She nods but doesn’t offer more. I decide to drop it.
“So, you all ready for your party tonight?” she asks.
Not even close. Before this day is done, she and I will be man and wife. She will be my queen.
My body starts to hum with hard tension, knowing how badly I desire to consummate the marriage.
“Yeah.” I swallow down a dry lump. “My new apartment is great.” Not that I’ve seen it yet.
“Must be nice having a little extra money.”
As I said, she thinks I inherited some cash from an uncle. Really, I just used money from my checking account. Back in Cincinnati, I have a very different cover and a large publicly declared inheritance. In Phoenix, such a cover wouldn’t be possible. Not if I wished to remain working for Miriam. A vampire’s cover story must make sense, and wealthy people typically don’t take minimum-wage jobs. Really, that is how she and I met. I wandered into her library, and she thought I was a college student applying for a part-time job. I ended up playing along, and the rest is history.
The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant, Book 3 Page 5