Bled & Breakfast

by Michelle Rowen

  “I’ve changed,” he replied. “More than I ever would have thought possible, actually.”

  Owen’s gaze flicked to me again. “Maybe you’re right. And what a wonderful change it is. Tell me, Sarah, how on earth do you put up with Monsieur de Bennicoeur’s dour ways? You must feel as if you’ve married a high school principal.”

  I shrugged. “Guess that’s my type. The dourer the better, I say.”

  “I’m not dour,” Thierry said dourly.

  Owen grinned. “Congratulations on your nuptials, by the way. I think it’s fantastic.”

  “Do you?” Thierry gave him a skeptical look before it finally eased. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “Can’t believe you also committed yourself to the Ring, though. They must have had some serious duress involved to get you back into the fold. When I finished my term with them I was happy to finally be free. But good luck to you.”

  Thierry didn’t reply to this and I wasn’t going to touch the subject with a ten-foot wooden stake. In a nutshell, the Ring—while a necessary entity—was a shadowy and mysterious organization that did shadowy and mysterious things. Thierry had been an original founder but left a century ago to pursue other interests. Very recently—like, less than a week ago—he’d taken the job as consultant, a job that required him to sign on the dotted line. In blood. It was part of a blood magic spell that bound him to the Ring for the next fifty years.

  I believed he’d done it because they’d threatened to kill me if he didn’t. So, yeah, “duress” was a good word. He had yet to admit this to me in so many words, but I knew it was the truth. He’d sacrificed his own future to save my life and he’d never wanted me to know.

  My heart swelled every time I thought about it. I would love him forevermore for that. For-ever-more.

  And I didn’t trust the Ring as far as I could throw them. I had a very good memory, and this matter, as far as I was concerned, was nowhere near resolved.

  “So . . . ,” I said after silence fell at the table. “What’s happening in Salem? You’re the guy with all the answers, apparently.”

  Owen gestured for an eager waitress to bring him a cup of coffee. “Not all the answers, I’m afraid.”

  “All I was told was that there have been some disappearances,” Thierry said. “Tell us more.”

  Owen nodded. “Three vampires have gone missing while visiting town. Nobody would have thought anything strange about it, but they’ve disappeared in less than a month. One of these vampires is the mistress of a Ring elder, thus the quick response.”

  “Do you suspect vampire hunters?” Thierry asked.

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. Hunters steer clear of Salem. That’s why I like it here so much.”

  I frowned. “Why do they stay away from here? They seem to gather everywhere else to make our lives difficult.”

  “Likely, the threat of witches.” Thierry caught my surprised reaction. “Hunters are a superstitious lot. Witches are bad luck for them. Also, crossing paths with a witch hunter would be dangerous for everyone involved.”

  I thought it through, still disturbed by the idea of witches or witch hunters, let alone regular hunters. “So it would be like turf wars—West Side Story without the singing.”

  “Something like that. Or, at least, that’s what they try to avoid. Other towns that are rumored to be the home to covens are treated much the same way. The world of witches and the world of vampires rarely cross paths.”

  “So there are witches in Salem,” I said. For this I looked at Owen for the answer. After all, he lived here.

  “Some,” he agreed. “But no alphas.”

  At my confused look, Thierry took over. “An alpha is the term used for a very powerful witch who can do magic without a grimoire, a book of spells. These witches are rare.”

  “And luckily, none are currently living in Salem,” Owen added. “Just the harmless ones who like to do simple spells and cook up magical recipes. There are many peaceful Wiccans here, too. And, of course, there are the ones who only think they’re witches. They usually wear the pointy hats.”

  When I thought of Salem, of course I thought of witches. My knowledge of witches as a kid involved watching reruns of Bewitched—and I had the nose twitch down pat. This town was ready, willing, and able to appeal to that particular tourist expectation. There was even a bronze statue of Elizabeth Montgomery herself seated on her broom in Lappin Park, close to this café.

  But alpha witch? Like an alpha werewolf, I figured—the leader, the most powerful one. Only . . . minus the hairballs.

  “You said one of the missing vampires is the mistress of a Ring elder,” Thierry said, helping to get us back on topic.

  Owen nodded. “That’s right.”

  “If there aren’t any hunters in town, maybe nothing bad happened to her,” I reasoned. “Maybe she was tired of being his mistress and took off with someone else.”

  “Maybe.” Owen cleared his throat. He wasn’t looking directly at us anymore; instead he was staring over at the coffee bar with its glass display of baked goods.

  Thierry watched him carefully, his arms crossed over his chest. “Let me guess. You were romantically involved with her.”

  “I’m not really sure I’d say that one night constitutes involved. There’s a popular karaoke bar that I go to all the time, and let’s just say that Monique knew how to sing Beyoncé like nobody’s business.” He shrugged. “I had to have her.”

  “You slept with the mistress of a Ring elder.” I put it into words so there was no misunderstanding here.

  He didn’t look the least bit guilty about it. “What can I say? For a three-hundred-year-old woman she was unbelievably hot. Like porn star hot, you know?”

  He seemed to consider this to be an asset.

  “But she’s gone, just disappeared,” he finished.

  “And the other two?” Thierry asked.

  “A regular vamp couple passing through town with no specific Ring affiliation. I had dinner with them. Nice.” He cleared his throat again. “Really nice.”

  Something about the way he said it . . .

  “How well did you know them?” I asked.

  “Uh . . . let’s just say that some couples like to experiment when they’re on vacation. And if they happen to suggest that I join them, what am I supposed to say? No?”

  I could safely say I’d now known him long enough to have a non-first-impression impression. Owen Harper—a vampire of amazing looks and indeterminate age—was the town slut.

  “So three vampires have gone missing while traveling through Salem,” Thierry said evenly, “and all three had spent a night with you.”

  Owen took the mug of coffee from the passing waitress’s tray, throwing a couple bucks in its place, and gave her a flirtatious grin before she moved on. “Basically. And just for the record, I had nothing to do with their disappearances.”

  There was no accusation in Thierry’s gaze toward Owen at these revelations. Nor was there any surprise. None at all.

  “Does the Ring know this?” I asked. “That you were, um, intimately involved with them?”

  “Are you kidding?” He gave me a stunned look, then turned to Thierry. “If Franklin found out about me and Monique . . . he’d probably have me staked. And it was nothing. The briefest of flings.”

  Thierry let out a humorless snort. “You’re right. He wouldn’t be pleased. If I’m not mistaken, you also had a ‘brief fling’ with his second wife during the Civil War.”

  Owen took another sip of his coffee. “Whatever. It’s not like it’s relevant. Three vamps are missing without a trace. That’s all I know. Now it’s your job to find out what happened to them.”

  “And you?” I asked. “What are you going to do?”

  “Whatever I like. As usual.” He gave me another friendly grin. “I can show you around town if Thierry’s too busy. It would be my pleasure to get to know you better.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re no
t nearly dour enough for me to spend more than a few minutes with. No offense.”

  I heard another snort from Thierry’s direction. This one held much more humor than the last.

  If he’d even been the least bit concerned that I’d be taken in by this shiny but vapid vampire, then he needed to think again. I mean, please.

  “We need a suggestion for a hotel,” Thierry said. “Can you help?”

  Owen had brushed off my dismissal without an ounce of ill will, which I had to respect. His smile hadn’t even wavered. “Of course. But you don’t want a hotel. I know a great bed-and-breakfast that would be perfect for you.”

  A bed-and-breakfast sounded wonderful, actually. I’d never stayed in one before. And Salem—witches or not—seemed like the perfect spot for a casual but fun honeymoon, even if we had to take care of some business as well.

  “Lead the way,” I said.

  Just before I followed Owen and Thierry through the swinging glass door, I had that strange shivery feeling again. I stopped and turned to look.

  The pale, dark-haired man was back, and he stood a dozen feet away, staring at me. I met his black eyes directly and felt frozen in place by the coldness in his gaze.

  “Soon,” he said, his voice deep and scary and as icy as his eyes. Then the corner of his mouth turned up into a sinister smile.

  The next moment he disappeared into thin air.

  I shuddered.

  Yeah. That was definitely a ghost. And one that nobody else seemed able to see.

  Lucky me.

  Chapter 2

  The Booberry Inn was a Georgian colonial painted shades of gray, with a purple front door and a well-tended flower garden—very colorful under the hot, bright sun of this mid-June day.

  Many might expect that vampires never ventured out in the sunlight. Well, they’d be wrong. We were fine during daylight hours and slept at night—just like regular humans. However, the sun did feel way brighter than it had before I was sired, and it worked to quickly zap my energy. My remedy for this was a nice pair of dark sunglasses and giving up my need to maintain a tan. Problem solved.

  “Booberry?” I said as we walked up the front path, glancing at the hand-painted sign.

  “Ghost joke,” Owen replied with a smirk.

  “Is the rumor of an infamous witch hunter’s ghost haunting Salem true or just a story the locals like to tell?” Thierry asked.

  Owen shrugged. “Who cares? Ghosts are so meaningless in the grand scheme of things.”

  “True enough.”

  That ghost in the café hadn’t seemed so meaningless to me. Especially with that cryptically whispered “soon,” which still sent a chill racing through me. In other words, I’d been successfully spooked by a spook.

  Still, Thierry and Owen were right. Ghosts didn’t have much effect on the living other than being mostly weird and sometimes scary entities trapped at the periphery of certain places. Just because I could see this Malik guy didn’t mean he had any influence over me. If I saw him again I’d just ignore him, since giving him the “You’re freaking me out!” look was only feeding the troll.

  Owen knocked on the front door, and it opened a minute later to a young redheaded woman whose eyes widened at the sight of him. “Owen, wow. Hi. I didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “Yet here I am.” He gave her a devastating grin. “With friends who need a spot to stay. Of course, the first place I thought of was yours.”

  She beamed. “Thank you. We actually don’t have anyone else registered right now, so this is great!”

  “Heather McKinley, this is Thierry and Sarah de Bennicoeur. They’re newlyweds.”

  Thierry and I exchanged a look, his amused, mine surprised. Mr. and Mrs. de Bennicoeur. It was the first time anyone had referred to us in that way.

  I hadn’t even considered going by his name full-time. As the last Dearly in my family line, I’d assumed I’d hang on to the name indefinitely.

  “Mrs. de Bennicoeur” sounded like the name of a much, much older woman. For example, Thierry’s ex-wife, Veronique, who was even older than he was (and, happily, far out of the picture and—fingers crossed—not likely to cause us problems anytime soon). But I suppose there was no reason why I couldn’t go by both when the occasion called for it.

  Sarah de Bennicoeur.

  It sounded so . . . worldly.

  “Oh, how wonderful!” Heather grinned at us. “Congratulations.”

  I smiled back at her. “Thanks. Great bed-and-breakfast, by the way. And the Booberry Inn is such a cute name.”

  “Heather does cute really well,” Owen said.

  She flinched at this. I didn’t think he’d meant it as an insult, but she didn’t seem pleased with the thought of being “cute” to the town gigolo.

  Uh-oh. I suddenly recognized that look she’d been giving him from the moment she opened the door. Heather had a crush on Owen. A big one.

  “Please come in.” Heather opened the door wider.

  “Well, look who it is,” an unfriendly voice called from the sidewalk. “Thought I’d get home without having to see you.”

  Heather cringed again but then fixed a stiff but pleasant smile on her face. She looked over my shoulder in the direction of the voice. “Hi, Miranda.”

  “Friends of yours visiting?” Miranda said thinly, then let out a dry chuckle. “How adorable. At least you have some friends in town, even if you can’t get any regular customers.”

  I turned to look at the blonde on the sidewalk, who was giving Heather a hostile glare.

  “Actually,” I said, bristling at the thought of anyone being mocked or intimidated who seemed too timid to immediately throw it back, “Heather and I are best friends. So back off, or I’d be happy to wipe that miserable look off your face.”

  Miranda sent a pinched look at me, appraising me from head to foot. “Whatever.”

  “Nice comeback.”

  Her narrowed gaze moved to Owen. “And you. What are you doing here? You told me you’d be out of town this week.”

  “I’m sorry,” Owen said, fighting a grin. “Do I know you?”

  She let out a sharp bark of a laugh that held no humor. “You are such a jerk, you know that? Everybody knows it, too. Everybody. You think you can sleep around and I wouldn’t find out about it?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Wasn’t a secret. If you thought what we had was more than it was, you were fooling yourself.” He said it blandly, as if he couldn’t care less what she thought of him.

  I wasn’t sure who to root for in this particular standoff, although I did lean toward Owen. He had the fangs.

  Miranda glared at him. “You should leave town before something bad happens to you.”

  “Is that a warning or a threat, Miranda?”

  “Take it however you like, Owen.” She said the name like it tasted bad.

  “Will you conjure up a voodoo doll and stick it with pins?” He laughed mockingly. “I could use a little acupuncture.”

  With a reddening face, Miranda finally glanced at Thierry. Her eyebrow arched with fresh interest. “Now, you can stay. You should come find me at Mulligan’s later. I’d be happy to get to know you better, handsome.”

  Thierry crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her silently. He wasn’t exactly the type to throw out a snarky retort. His displeased glower, however, spoke volumes.

  Her expression soured. “Whatever.”

  Then she gave him—and the rest of us—the finger before moving on down the sidewalk.

  I turned to Heather, who looked pale and unhappy. “So . . . she seems nice.”

  She gave me a weak grin. “Ignore her. She’s been like that since high school. Thought ten years would change her. Guess what?”

  “It didn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  We followed Heather into the warm and well-furnished interior of the Booberry Inn. She still seemed shaken, but I had to give her credit for trying to pull herself together and appear professional. She moved
to a small antique wooden desk in an adjoining room and sat down behind it.

  Uneasily, I followed, moving out of the way of the mirror on the wall near the entrance. One myth about vampires that was true—no reflections. Don’t even get me started on how inconvenient it was. Just don’t.

  Heather pulled out a leather-bound ledger. “How long do you think you’ll be staying with us?”

  “Good question.” I looked at Thierry.

  “Let’s say three days for now,” he said. “It might be more depending on how things go.”

  She nodded and scribbled the information down.

  “Is there somebody here?” An old woman appeared at the room entrance. She was small but round, with white hair in that neat style that looked as if she’d had the same hairdo since the 1950s. She wore a purple jogging suit, white socks, and black sandals. “Oh my, there is somebody here. How lovely.”

  Heather’s smile was back. “Grandma, we have guests. Sarah, Thierry, this is my grandmother Rose McKinley.”

  She shuffled forward, giving us a big grin. “Wonderful. As I always say, vampires are more than welcome at the Booberry Inn.”

  My hand froze in midextension toward her. “Excuse me?”

  She frowned. “You are a vampire, aren’t you?”

  Owen laughed, breaking through my knee-jerk reaction of horror at someone discovering our little secret. “It’s okay. Heather and Rose know about me. Rose assumes anyone I introduce to them lately is also a vampire, which is sometimes true, sometimes not. Rose, this is Sarah and Thierry.”

  “Oh, I’m very sorry.” Rose pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Am I wrong? Is it rude to assume these things?”

  “Not at all,” Thierry said. “You’re very insightful, Rose. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She glowed. “You too. Don’t worry—I like vampires. I remember Bela Lugosi as Dracula. You are much better-looking than he was.”

  “I . . . appreciate that, Rose.”

  Call me crazy, but I think the old lady was flirting with my husband. It was kind of sweet.

  Kind of.

  Heather’s eyes had widened a little as she processed this new info. “Okay, then.” She jotted something down in her ledger. “In that case, I’ll put you in the Batberry Suite. It has some special features, including extra-thick blinds.”