The Librarian's Vampire Assistant by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
“Sorry,” I say and gesture for the check. “I’m a bit riled up after today.”
“I’m sure you are. It’s got to be taking a lot out of you to forgive Lula like that.”
I wipe my mouth with my napkin and look at her inquisitively.
“Sorry. I saw you two having a moment through the peephole in your door.” She holds up her hands. “Not that I was spying, but you said you’d be right back, and you guys were gone for a long time.”
“It’s fine. And I’m sorry. I’m not usually this volatile.”
She smirks and then stabs a piece of curried tomato on her plate.
“What?” I ask.
“I love that you use real words—like volatile and bourgeoisie instead of emotional and middle class.”
All part of this glorious, manly, vampire package, but you shall never know. “Shall we go?”
“Where?” she asks.
“Back to your place.”
“Is it safe?”
“My psychic powers say yes,” I say dryly.
Her oval face contorts. “You’re really weirding me out with all that.”
“You are not the first. Nor shall you be the last.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?” Her eyes narrow on my face.
“I cannot say; you’re the one feeling it.”
“All right.” She takes a deep breath. “Ever since you’ve showed up, strange things are happening.”
“I think your life was heading for strange long before you met me,” I mumble.
“What does that mean?”
“You tell me,” I reply.
“Michael! Stop!” She slaps the table. “Enough with the aloof comebacks. Enough with the games and lies! Tell me what the hell is going on, or I will walk right out that door and this—” she toggles her finger between us “—is over.”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
Her nostrils flare, and she leans towards me. “Mother-effer, I am a mother-effing librarian. Which means I’m well-read and no dummy. So cut the crap.”
I look over at this tiny woman, half my size and weight, with a fraction of my age and years of wisdom, and I know I must decide. She is far too smart to deceive forever. If that were true, I wouldn’t think so highly of her.
I clear my throat and speak in a deep, quiet voice so only she can hear. “You are right, Miriam. And I apologize for the ruse.” I stare at her and pray she feels my sincerity. “Nothing is as it seems. I am not who I’ve told you. The facts surrounding you, the library, and your personal life are not what you think. But I ask you to trust me and to trust your instincts that I am doing everything I can to keep you safe.”
“Why should I trust you?” she snarls.
I exhale slowly. “Because I saved your life,” I whisper. “It was me who stopped that man. I killed him.”
She pushes back into her seat, and neither one of us cares about the few customers watching our drama from across the room.
Miriam stares into her lap, and I don’t feel a thing—not from her or me.
“Say something, Miriam.”
She exhales.
“Miriam?” I prod.
“I-I don’t know why you hid that, Michael. And I don’t know what’s really going on, but I can’t trust you. I don’t want to see you again,” she mutters. “Not ever. Please stay away.”
“Miriam.”
She rises to her feet. “Goodbye, Michael.”
I rise, too, and watch Miriam walk out of the restaurant, unsure if her dismissal is a blessing or a curse. I’ve never cared for anyone at the cellular level. And I’ve never been so afraid of permitting another person to have so much control over my world.
I drop my head into my hands. “What am I doing?”
I enter my broom closet, expecting witches and ghouls, only to find Lula watching TV on her tablet, scarfing down a plate of chocolate chip cookies, wearing nothing but one of my large white T-shirts. Nothing on the bottom. Except the plate.
I’ve seen Lula in the buff a number of times, but I cannot lie. Tonight I feel things I haven’t felt before. I am filled with fury, emotion, and distress.
I grab a blazer hanging over the side of the couch and toss it at her. “Cover yourself.”
Her jaw drops mid-crunch. “I am covered.” She points to her lap. “See? Cookie shield. And I bought you sheets and a blanket to cover your foldout. You’re welcome.” She points to a red comforter sitting on the floor in a clear plastic bag with a zipper. One of the sheets is already thrown over the couch. A good idea since her bare butt is parked on the dirty old thing.
“Thanks for covering the couch. Now cover yourself like I said,” I growl.
With a cold, defiant stare, she slides my jacket under her plate and over her lap.
I walk to the kitchen sink and spot Clive’s soup can sitting on the counter. “What are you doing with this?” I grab it and roar. It had been stashed away in my suitcase.
“Obviously nothing.” She glares. “You don’t have a can opener, and I didn’t want to dent a fang. But since when did you get all prudish? Or possessive over chicken soup?”
“I don’t want to see you naked, and this is not soup! It’s what’s left of the only person who has ever truly loved me, and you are not to touch it!”
The expression in Lula’s eyes turns from annoyed to devastated. I am horrified by the ugliness erupting from my mouth.
I turn, set down the can, and run the hot water. I want to splash my face, but the sound only reminds me of my life—I can’t seem to contain a damned thing, and it’s all rushing away from me. Four hundred years of discipline and struggle coming undone. Why? Because Clive died? Does this mean I never had control? Was he all that held me together?
“I don’t know what to do, Lula. It’s breaking me. And I am unsure what’s harder to accept: that he’s gone or that he never prepared me for this.”
Lula comes up behind me and slides her arms around my waist, pressing her warm cheek to my back. She’s fed tonight, and I am so distraught that I don’t ask who or where. At this point I’m hanging by a thread.
“I almost told Miriam about us tonight.” My fingers press into the rusty steel sink. “I almost threw away centuries of commitments, loyalty, and life to appease a three-day relationship. I am so weak. So goddamned weak.”
Lula squeezes tighter around my midriff. “It’s okay, Michael,” she whispers. “We will get through this.”
“I don’t know if I can. When he died, he took so much of me with him, and I wasn’t ready.” I cannot believe I’m saying any of this out loud. I am a man, strong and fearless, but above all, I am a vampire. We simply do not say such things, even if we feel them.
Lula pulls back and turns me to face her. When I stare down into her brown eyes, I see her letting go, dropping her guard. I see her pain and torment, but then I see something I don’t expect. Love?
“None of that is for Clive, is it?” I say quietly.
She shakes her head slowly, the tears trickling from her eyes. “No, Michael. He made me, but he made me for you. The pain I feel is for you.”
Gravity slides away, and I’m suddenly drifting, weightless, everything escaping into an empty vacuum, leaving me with only my emotions. Clive made Lula for me? He never said anything, yet I think in the back of my mind I always knew. He wanted to be sure I would never be alone because he understood I would never make anyone. He knew I would never allow myself to care for another enough to turn them on my own.
And he knew I have my reasons—something I have not spoken of for three hundred years.
I lower my forehead and press it to hers, cupping my hands to her warm cheeks. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Would it have mattered?” she whispers.
“I do not know.” I just don’t.
“Then at least make love to me. I’ve waited so long. So it’s now or never, and if never, then you have to set me free, Michael.”
I do not love. I do not feel passion.
I care, I am loyal, but no one ever truly gets in. Not even Clive. And it shames me to admit it. I cared deeply for him, but I never returned the love he gave for four hundred years. My affection came in the form of respect and loyalty. But never love.
This is why Miriam has upset Lula so much. She’s waited so long for my heart to thaw, and when I finally feel something, it isn’t for her—the woman who has been loyal and patient for over two centuries.
Once I realize all this, I cannot stop the flood of emotions from crashing down—the loss of my best friend, the need to comfort Lula, my anger and frustration over bonding myself with a woman who—for as long as she lives—will never feel a thing for me unless I turn her, which is something I’m unwilling to do. It’s too much for me.
I nod and hover my lips over Lula’s. “If this is what you want.”
She closes the gap and presses her lips to mine, and they are warm, sweet, and welcoming. I let go and give everything I can to Lula, though there isn’t anything worthwhile left. Just a shell.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I won’t lie. It has been ages since I have made love to a woman. And though Lula’s body provided a few hours of blessed release from the overwhelming emotions, I know it meant more to her than it did to me. She thinks it means I have finally changed.
I have not. I cannot. I have my reasons.
This was a mistake.
“It’s okay, Michael,” she says as I grab my clothes the next morning. “I know you only did it to please me.”
“I do not know what you mean,” I say, sliding on my jeans and buttoning the fly, avoiding eye contact.
“I’m not stupid. I can see the regret all over your face, but there’s no need for that.”
I glance at her and slip on a white Oxford from the closet. “I regret nothing.”
She jumps up from the couch and grabs my arm. “Look at me.”
I do, but I hide everything. I cannot walk around with my emotions on my sleeve, getting the best of me.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for giving me last night. I know you did it to make me happy, and I appreciate that you care enough to put me first for once.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. I knew exactly what state of mind you were in.” She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.
“So you’re saying that you took advantage of me?” I cock one brow.
“Yes.”
I chuckle bitterly. “Well, there’s one I’ve never heard before.” She is attempting to make me feel better.
“Michael, you don’t have to shield and protect me from the truth. I’m over two hundred years old, and I know exactly what last night meant.”
“What?”
“Nothing. We had sex.”
I fold my arms over my chest and look down at her. “And what about the things you said—”
“About Clive making me for you?” She shrugs. “That doesn’t mean we were meant to be anything more than we are—family, friends, master/assistant, and now, occasional hump-buddies when I need very, very mediocre sex.” She crinkles her nose. “So…mediocre.”
“That is not what you said last night.” I have the scratch marks on my back and bite marks on my neck to prove it.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mikey. You were rubbish. But at least now I know, so I can stop fantasizing that you’re like some god in the sack.”
I am a god in the sack—a relentless lover, skilled in the art of delivering intense pleasure—but I know she simply doesn’t want to get hurt, so she pretends it meant nothing to her. And, regrettably, I’m thankful she’s not being truthful. As I said, I am not a man who wishes to have that sort of relationship in his life. I feed my physical needs when it pleases me—eat when I am hungry, drink when I am thirsty, sleep when I am tired, and screw when I am aroused. All right, that last one doesn’t come along very often.
Suddenly, I cannot help but wonder if it isn’t so much for lack of need, but because I simply loathe situations like these. They always want more. I never do. Or perhaps it is the simple fact that I do not like losing control—yesterday being a prime example. Miriam and this attachment I’ve formed has the potential to cloud my judgment. For God’s sake, I almost told her what I was. Not good.
“We okay?” Lula asks, throwing on her clothes.
I turn away to give her privacy. “Better than ever.”
“Then what’s on the agenda for today?” she asks, being overly cheerful.
“The party is tonight, so we have work to do.” I grab my keys and wallet.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we need to get you set up with some equipment,” I say. Mostly, I’m thinking about those tiny video cameras Clive always had me use. They are so small, they can be passed off as a button on a shirt or glued to a barrette in the hair. They also do not make noise or carry strange scents.
“What about showing up to a party full of vampires?” Lula asks. Her point is they will notice her right away and become suspicious. Territorial is more accurate.
“Ah, that is simple. I’m going to teach you how to pass for human.”
Lula gives me a look to indicate she thinks I am mad.
“One does not live as long as I have without acquiring a few skills,” I explain.
“I can’t wait to see this one. And what if they notice I’m an uninvited human?” she asks.
“That is where I’m heading now. Viviana is young. I will convince her to help us,” I say.
“Okay. But promise me, Michael, after the party, we go to the council with whatever we have.”
“I have every intention of doing so,” I say.
“That’s not a promise.”
I take her hand and kiss the top. “And last night was not mediocre.”
“What does that mean?” she asks.
“It means, when one knows the truth, hearing the words isn’t always necessary.” I open the door.
“Ugh. I hate when you’re all cryptic.”
I smile and close the door behind me.
Suddenly, I feel this strange void inside my chest. I know it is because of how things just went with Lula. But I cannot go where she needs me to go. I cannot be who she needs me to be.
My thoughts drift to Miriam.
No. Put her out of your mind. You are stronger than the bond. And I am one party away from solving Clive’s murder and seeing Aspen pay for his treachery.
Then I am out of here, never to look back on this festering hellhole of sunshine.
“Mr. Vanderhorst, so nice to see you.” Viviana smiles nervously with bright red lips that match her dress as she opens the door to the office. “Mr. Aspen is on his way and just asked me to call you.”
“Really?” I am surprised.
“Yes.”
I sense something is off, but there are no malicious vibes coming from Viviana.
“So he is back from Chicago,” I say, knowing that’s not where he’s been.
She nods anxiously. “Back and ready to update you on Clive’s case.”
My brain stumbles. What trickery is this?
Just then Aspen whirls through the front door.
Viviana and I turn toward him.
“Mr. Vanderhorst, what a pleasant surprise!” He extends his cold hand.
Why’s he so cheery? This is a bad sign.
I shake his hand firmly. “The pleasure is all mine. Viviana just informed me that you have an update on Clive Bakker.”
“I sure do,” he says chirpily. “Let’s go up to my office, and I can fill you in.”
What are you up to, you vermin? I dip my head and allow him to pass, giving a look to Viviana. I can see it in her eyes. Fear. Nerves. Something.
All right, so I came here to fina
What any ancient vampire would: wing it.
I follow Aspen upstairs, using years of practice to mask every emotion. I keep my heart rate steady, I maintain slow, level breathing, and I do not allow my true thoughts to seep to the surface. These are the same tricks I use to pass as human around vampires from time to time, only it’s the opposite. Send heat to my skin, emotions loud and clear permeating the air, and breathing that flows with whatever emotion I attempt to convey. As for scent, there are several colognes on the market today that easily overpower our noses. My favorites are Jovan Musk or Drakkar Noir. They literally give any vampire in a one-mile radius a raging nose ache.
I take a seat in the shiny white chair in front of Aspen’s Ikea desk, fully aware that he is about to serve me a heaping pile of BS. I am prepared to swallow it all down with a glorious smile so that I may see him entombed for eternity.
“Well,” he says, “I must tell you, that was quite some investigation.”
“I can only imagine.”
“It has taken every resource we have, and our absolute best investigators, but we spared nothing to find the person responsible for Clive’s killer, including going through every inch of Clive’s home and office to ensure we missed nothing.”
So it was his men who went to Clive’s office the other night. But they were there to cover Aspen’s tracks, not gather evidence. I’m sure of it.
“And I thank you for driving this to a swift closure,” I say.
“It is my duty as my society’s leader.” He hands me a folder. “This is the report we will give to the council, and while it is breaking protocol to provide you with a copy before the guilty party has been dealt with, I feel these are extenuating circumstances given who Mr. Bakker was.”
“I very much appreciate the gesture.”
“Well,” he leans back in his chair, “you are family now. And sometimes we must make exceptions to the rules for family. Wouldn’t you agree?”
There’s a sinister tone to Aspen’s voice, and alarm bells are going off in the back of my head. He’s up to something. And it’s bad. I can feel it coming.