The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Keeping my head low, I drove his car past the two occupied houses at a sedate, everything’s normal pace, and continued north.

  The city gradually embraced me, fields giving way to sidewalks and houses and traffic; I made brief stops to clear the car of evidence. Most of it went into an incinerator near the Stockyards that I’d used before for getting rid of incriminating things. Dugan’s suitcase and that goddamned bottle of green ink went into the fire, along with the mop.

  I left the small radio on someone’s porch. Did the same again for the box of new tools. Happy birthday.

  The blood went into a gutter drain. It seemed to take a long time to pour out, but only because I was worried someone would catch me at it. Though it was wasteful, I wasn’t hungry. The empty bottles and threaded rods I shoved into trash cans behind a closed diner along with the bucket of broken glass.

  The car emptied bit by bit until only the bundles of cash remained. In a few weeks I’d mail the money back to the woman it belonged to with the hope she’d wise up about her choice in boyfriends.

  Cleaned out, my prints wiped away, I left the car across from a police station and slunk off into the shadows before anyone noticed.

  I was still in a scary-looking condition and avoided people. A beat cop noticed me and started coming in my direction, but I vanished into an alley and sped along for a block before re-forming again.

  Needing clothes and a cleaning up, I slipped into a closed men’s store and helped myself to one of everything, leaving the tags and more than enough cash on the counter.

  A few streets over I found a hotel. Not wanting to startle the night clerk, I floated up the outside wall and sieved into an empty room on the top floor. There I stripped and scalded clean in the shower bath.

  With much relief I noted that there were no permanent scars on my arms or my wrist where Dugan had cut me. The old ones left by Bristow were still present, but they didn’t bother me as much now.

  I had no shaving gear, but the rest of me was clean and grateful for the new clothes. I shoved my rags down the hotel’s own incinerator chute and left five bucks in the bathroom for the maid to find.

  Doing a plausible impersonation of a respectable citizen, I hired a taxi from the hotel stand, and got a quick ride to Lady Crymsyn.

  The lights were on. Myrna must be awake. I paid off the driver and strolled across the street, checking both ways for anything more dangerous than myself.

  The front door was unlocked. I listened a moment. A radio played, and a woman was singing along with the music.

  I pushed in. Bobbi was at the bar with several stacks of paper scattered over it. She was in deep study over something but looked up the moment the door opened.

  Her eyes widened as she stared me up and down, but I couldn’t read anything of what she was thinking. I let the door shut softly behind and stepped in, unsure of my reception. She shut off the radio.

  “I’m back,” I finally said, just to break the thick silence.

  “No kiddin’,” she replied. “You get your thinking all done?”

  Oh. Dugan had left a misleading message on my behalf. May he rot in hell or at least in that pit he’d dug for me. “Yeah. All done.”

  “Good.”

  I wanted to hold her, make sure she was real, but sensed she was in a prickly mood. “What’s that?”

  She rested her fingers lightly on the papers. “Head shots, clippings, and my credits list. It was in the files upstairs. I want to get everything in order. Lenny Larsen said I’d need to have new photographs, but that I should wait and have them done in Hollywood.”

  “He’d be the expert. How are Roland and Faustine?”

  “They’re fine. He’s getting better. So’s Gordy.”

  I nodded, forcing a brief, wooden smile.

  God, I felt as awkward as a kid at his first dance. After three nights of surviving hell’s antechamber it was disorienting to be back in my normal world. It and the people there had no idea of what I’d been through. I had no inclination to tell them, either.

  “What is it, Jack?”

  “I…I’m just glad to see you. I missed you.”

  “Missed you, too.”

  She was waiting for me to work up to the delicate topic of her going off to make that screen test. I’d promised to think about it. And I had. At length. It was one of the things that had kept me alive.

  It had to wait, though. A car pulled up out front. Probably some late drinkers hoping the club had reopened. I went to the door to lock it, but not in time.

  Escott, looking like he’d been dragged through Lake Michigan and hung out to dry in the rain, barged in. He stopped in surprise, glaring.

  “Well, it’s about damned time you got back,” he told me, and bulled past.

  Behind him was Kroun. “Where the hell have you been?” he said.

  He didn’t wait for an answer but trudged to a chair and dropped heavily into it. He’d been dragged through the lake, mudflats, and some kind of obstacle course.

  Bobbi didn’t know who to stare at the most. That made two of us. “Charles?”

  “May I have a whiskey?” he asked her. He peeled out of his damp overcoat.

  She played barmaid. “What happened to you?”

  “Minor escapade. Quite stupid and wholly boring.”

  She shot a glance at me. Neither of us believed him. “Mr. Kroun?”

  He held up a grubby palm and summoned some charm for her. “Gabe, please.”

  “Gabe. What happened?”

  He grimaced and brushed his hand over the white patch. “I had some business problems to work out. Got a little messy. I need to lie low for a while. Escott said this joint would be all right.” He looked at me.

  I gave an “I don’t mind” shrug, trusting Escott would explain later.

  Something shook inside my chest, fighting its way out. I tried to suppress the urge, but nothing doing, it was too strong.

  I started laughing.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t that scary, maniacal kind, but the three of them stared until I got it under control.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “We were worried about you,” said Escott sourly. He downed his drink.

  Bobbi poured him another and growled agreement.

  “I wasn’t,” said Kroun. “But you picked a hell of a time to run off.”

  “Sorry,” I repeated. “Won’t happen again.”

  That stood on its own for a while. I took off my new coat and hat, putting them on one of the stools. No one seemed disposed to start a conversation until the light flickered behind the bar.

  “Hello, Myrna,” I said. “Good to see you, too.”

  Kroun muttered something I didn’t catch.

  “Figuratively speaking,” I added.

  The flickering stopped. I thought that later, when I was alone, I’d tell Myrna what I’d been through. She wouldn’t mind. It wouldn’t change things between us.

  “What’s with the beard?” asked Kroun, rubbing his own unshaved jaw.

  “Forgot my razor.”

  “Jack…is that a new suit?” Bobbi came around the bar for a closer look.

  “Like it?”

  “It’s nice.”

  At the clothing store, the only double-breasted in my size that I could halfway tolerate had been a pale gray number. I felt like an overdressed street sweeper.

  “It’s kind of light for the season, isn’t it?”

  “Well…uh…I heard it’s warmer in California.”

  Her eyes blazed impossibly bright; she gave a laughing shriek and jumped into my arms.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Introduction by Rachel Caine

  Shiny by Rachel Caine

  In Vino Veritas by Karen Chance

  Hunt by Rachel Vincent

  Monsters by Lilith Saintcrow

  Vampires Prefer Blondes by P. N. Elrod

  Nine-Tenths of the Law by Jenna Black

  Double Dead by Cheyenne McCray


  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  A Rose by Any Other Name Would Still Be Red by Elizabeth A. Vaughan

  Superman by Jeanne C. Stein

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Monster Mash by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Wanted: Dead or Alive by L. A. Banks

  Mist by Susan Krinard

  Beyond the Pale by Nancy Holder

  About the Authors

  About the Editors

  Copyright Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  Rachel Caine

  When I was growing up, I used to wonder why girls never got the cool stories. You know what I mean—the tales with knights fighting for right, with detectives prowling the mean streets to solve crimes, and the gritty stories about growing up on the wrong side of the tracks.

  Instead, the books people thought I should read were about ballerinas. About good girls who did what they were told. About women who rarely had adventures, and when they did, rarely saved themselves, or anybody else.

  I decided I didn’t want to be the princess languishing in the tower—I wanted to be the knight battling to save her. So I grabbed all the adventure stories I could, and never looked back.

  I’m particularly proud to be included in this collection of stories featuring powerful women, women who aren’t afraid to kick a little butt—or a lot of it—when the situation calls for it. I’m also honored to be in the company of these fantastic storytellers, who kick some stereotyping butt of their own.

  I’m proud to be a chick—never more than now.

  Because chicks are awesome.

  SHINY

  A WEATHER WARDEN STORY

  Rachel Caine

  We were enjoying a rare day that did not include doom and apocalypse, and wonder of wonders, it was one of those balmy, beautiful early-summer days that reminded me why I lived in Florida.

  It had been David’s idea to do a beach picnic, which, given the lovely, mild weather, was a fantastic idea, but it had been mine to take a drive. A nice long one, on winding roads, for the sheer pleasure of putting tires to asphalt and seeing the world. So we had compromised on a long drive followed by a beach picnic, which was a perfect thing to do on such a lovely day.

  Me, I loved to get behind the wheel even more than the prospect of the beach itself. I especially loved to drive really good cars, and this one, a Viper, was right up there in my ranking of awesome rides. Not as sweet as my long-lost Mustang Mona, who’d been a casualty of life in the Weather Warden ranks, but still: nice, and powerful.

  David had never said one way or another whether he liked cars, but I suspected he did. Although not much impresses a Djinn. This is an unalterable fact of the world: Djinn—or genies—have been around since the dawn of time, although some are certainly newer than others, and one thing they all share is a sense of historical perspective. By the time you get to your first few hundred years, much less few thousand, I suspect, the “been there, done that” feeling is overwhelming.

  Which is why it seemed so unusual to hear my Djinn lover David let out a low whistle as I powered through a turn, and say, “That’s something you don’t see every day.”

  I peeled my attention back from the curve and looked where he was looking. Just off the road, with the backdrop of the wetlands, was a mob of vehicles and people, and massive industrial video cameras—high-definition ones, I assumed. Everyone looked ridiculously casual in dress, and highly professional in what he or she was doing.

  “Commercial shoot,” I said. It wasn’t that astonishing, in this part of the world. Everybody loved the colors and lifestyle here, and there were probably more still and video cameras clicking away here than anywhere else in the country, except Hollywood. And maybe New York City. “What’s so special…”

  And then I saw it.

  It was a silvery vision of a car, elegant as something designed by a classical sculptor. Michelangelo, maybe, if he’d worked in metal and sheer engine power. I instinctively took my foot off the gas, staring, because in all my extensive years of car fetishizing, I’d never actually seen anything that cool with my own eyes.

  I pulled the Viper over to the side of the road, barely noticing the crunch of tires on gravel, and stared. My mouth was probably hanging open, too. Honestly, David was right—you just did not see that every day. Or, in fact, any day, unless you worked at an Italian car manufacturer, or had $1.7 million to throw around on a set of wheels. “That,” I said, “is a freaking Bugatti Veyron. In the Everglades.” It wasn’t the fastest car in the world—maybe number two?—but it was, to my mind, the most elegantly designed. And, not coincidentally, the most expensive.

  David let out a little snort of laughter. “I wasn’t talking about the car,” he said. Well, of course he wasn’t, but I was still adjusting to the fact that there was a Bugatti Veyron sitting there, not twenty feet away from me. A couple of staffers for the shoot were polishing it with soft cloths, not that it needed the help to look its best. I blinked and tried to see what else was in the picture.

  Ah. He was talking about the girl. The one in the bikini.

  The one in the diamond bikini. Not a bikini with diamonds, not a blinged-out piece of spandex … an actual bikini, made of diamonds. Now that I’d noticed her, it was hard to see how I’d missed her in the first place—the glitter of all those facets was blinding. The girl wearing the thing was getting herself powdered—last-minute primping, just like the car—and she looked almost as sleek and expensive as what she was wearing, and what her backdrop would be. I presumed she was a world-class model, or she wouldn’t be here acting as the prop for all that loot. You didn’t go cheap on the talent in a thing like this.

  I blinked as a cloud blotted out the sun. No, not a cloud … a shadow, and then a body, big enough to present a solid flesh barrier to me catching any more glimpses of car, girl, or diamonds. He was, unmistakably, security. I could cleverly discern this by reading the giant letters in white on his black T-shirt, which read SECURITY , but even had he been unlabeled, there would really have been no mistaking him for anything else. He was professional muscle; whether he took it to bodyguarding a star, bouncing a club, or donning an overdone belt as a pro wrestler, he’d made a career out of intimidation.

  “Hi,” I said brightly. He scowled down at me from way, way up high. Tall, not only broadly built. “Just wanted to see what was going on.”

  “Nothing, ma’am,” he said. “Move on, please.”

  “I’m not in the way.” I had no real reason not to immediately put the Viper in gear and drive on, but I didn’t like being scowled at. Or ordered around. “That’s a Bugatti Veyron, right?”

  “No idea. Move on.”

  “Look—what’s your name?”

  “Steve.”

  “Steve, I promise, I’m just looking. Give me a second and I’ll go.”

  Instead, Steve took a step back and waved a hand, and from somewhere behind me, two uniformed Florida state troopers sauntered over, one on my side of the car, one on David’s. The saunter was deceptive, because I didn’t for a moment believe they were being relaxed about it. “Miss,” said the one who bent over on my side of the window. He had a thick Southern accent, a little too Southern for Florida. I was guessing he was a Georgia transplant. “You need to move along now, unless you’ve got a pass.”

  David reached into the glove box and brought out something in an envelope, which he handed over without a word to the officer on his side of the car. The trooper unfolded the paper, read it, and said to his partner, “They’ve got a pass, Joe.”

  “They do? Let me see that!”

  The two passed the paper back and forth for a while, then huddled with the security guard, who came back and leaned in D
avid’s window this time. David was noticeably not bothered or intimidated; he even looked amused, from the light glittering in his brown-bronze eyes. (He was trying to keep his Djinn side from showing, at least. Thankfully.)

  “Where’d you get this?” Mr. Security demanded, flourishing the paper.

  David jerked his chin at the model. “From her,” he said. “She’s my sister.”

  “Your what ?” As if no supermodel in the world had siblings, or parents, or any kind of family. Well, they did often look lab-grown, that was a true fact.

  “Ask her,” David said, raising his eyebrows. The security dude stalked off, as much as someone so muscle-bound could effectively stalk, and arrived next to the diamond model. He bent over and spoke to her. She leaned past him, looking at David, and then smiled.

  “David?” I asked, in a voice that was probably way too confused. “Who is that?”

  He smiled, but didn’t answer. Annoying.

  Security Steve was trudging his way back, and he looked … apologetic. Not that he had a very mobile sort of face, but I got the subtlety from the hangdog set of his slumped shoulders. He leaned in and said, in a much different kind of voice, “Sorry, sir. Didn’t know who you were. Miss, why don’t you park right over there, next to the director’s car? Miss Whitney wants to say hello.”

  “Miss Whitney,” I repeated, and followed parking instructions as David continued with that Cheshire cat grin. “Do I even want to know how you’ve picked up a sudden sister named Miss Whitney?”

  “The usual way,” he said. “At least, for me.”

  “She’s Djinn,” I guessed. “New Djinn.”