The Librarian's Vampire Assistant by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  A thousand thoughts sift through my mind, and I fight to maintain my air of calmness. I take the folder with a steady gaze and open it.

  “As you’ll see, Mr. Vanderhorst, we’ve collected a substantial amount of evidence, which shows that Clive was investigating a land developer who attempted to swindle his client—a vampire from our society—out of money. Kline was selling condos and the sort to investors, but it was all smoke and mirrors.”

  I flip through the pages, my eyes scanning quickly. Bob Kline, land developer, cartel ties, money laundering…

  “Go on,” I say, my anxiety building faster than I can control. I only hope that Aspen believes my emotions are in response to reliving Clive’s final moments and my desire for revenge.

  He continues, “Well, the short of it is, the developer—this Kline fellow—found out that Clive Bakker was onto him, so he had his partner kill your maker. The partner owned the land of this fake massive building project, and you’ll see from the culprit’s profile that Clive never would have seen her coming. She’s quite clever—or maybe book smart is the right word. Either way, she decided to cover her tracks and sever all ties with Kline. Or shall I say, sever Mr. Kline altogether? We found his body several days ago. She is quite vicious.”

  I turn to the last page, and the photograph is a face I recognize all too well. Miriam?

  I stand and throw the folder at Aspen. “What sort of horseshit is this!”

  Aspen holds up his hands. “Mr. Vanderhorst,” he smiles wickedly, “I know it is difficult to believe that a frail little human, a woman at that, could be so brutal and take down a two-thousand-year-old vampire like Cluentius Boethius, but I assure you, all of the facts are right there in black and white, ready for the council to validate.”

  His words deliver a blow. A full knockout.

  “How do you know Clive’s real name?” I mutter in disbelief. No one except myself knew. Not even Lula. Clive made me swear never to tell anyone, and the only reason I know is because I was made before the days of the societies, the council, and laws, and I fought by Clive’s side to change the way our people lived. He felt he owed me truth about why the cause was so important and told me how things were in the very beginning—the violence, the savagery against humans and our own people. “It was a time of constant power struggles between clans, and anyone foolish enough to be a leader did not live long.”

  Because the oldest was and still is chosen for leader, Clive faked his death and went on the move, pretending to be a new vampire without a family in order to survive. All that ended when I came along, which, according to him, changed everything. “Our kind must evolve, Michael, and if we succeed, for the first time ever we will live peaceful existences, which is something I owe you since I made you.” After our vampire revolution ended, Clive asked me never to bring up his past again and assured me that anyone who once knew him was long gone.

  Obviously, someone else knew his real identity and that someone told Aspen. Regardless, Clive is dead now. So what is Aspen after?

  “Cut the crap, Aspen. We both know that human didn’t kill Clive.”

  “You’re right. One hundred percent. But I know who Clive really was, which means I know who you are. I also know that you helped this librarian woman live and you now have a special interest in her.” He takes a sharp pencil from the holder on his desk and pokes at his palm, twirling it between his fingers.

  Hell. I’m being blackmailed, plain and simple, and I never saw it coming. I’ve been so distracted by my grief for Clive and protective feelings for Miriam that I let my guard down. Never again.

  “What do you want?” I snarl.

  “We won’t tell anyone about your lineage, which will keep you and your little librarian safe. In exchange, you let us keep doing what we’re doing.”

  “Drug trafficking? Is that what this is all about?”

  Aspen laughs. “Do you think for one moment that I would lift a finger to make a hundred dollars on a street corner, risking the attention of human law enforcement?” He chuckles. “We are selling something far more valuable.”

  I frown. “Which is?”

  “None of your concern. What you need to decide, son of Cluentius Boethius, is if you want to be hunted by every low-life vampire in this hemisphere, which will also put a target on your little librarian’s back. They’ll use her to get to you.”

  And there it is, ladies and gentlemen, the reason I do not allow anyone to get too close. My blood—Clive’s blood—is as ancient and powerful as it gets. Clive was one of the first, which makes me a second-generation vampire. I have some of the most valuable, potent blood on the planet, and while having it makes me strong enough to fend off anyone who might seek to take it for themselves—a sort of steroid and vitamin boost that would never wear off—they would still try. It makes me a target, which is the other reason Clive chose to hide who he was.

  But who did he tell? Who told Aspen?

  I nod slowly, trying to puzzle out every angle I’ve thus ignored, because yeah, this is a monumental screwup on my part. I came here to Phoenix, naively thinking that Clive’s past was dead. But that was the first rule he taught me: “Our kind has survived this long by being as devious as we are patient. Always be on your guard.”

  I rub the bristly stubble on my jaw, trying to appear calm while my mind races. “So the only price is I say nothing about your operation—whatever that is?” Sounds too good to be true.

  “More or less,” he replies.

  I stare at Aspen, debating if I should simply reach across the desk and end him now. At the bare minimum, it would give me pleasure.

  “Uh-uh-uhh…” He wags his finger, reading my vindictive thoughts. “Before you begin making alternative plans, such as telling the council, you should know two things: we know you broke the law and killed the man who attacked the librarian.” He tsks. “The penalty for poaching is quite severe. And if that isn’t a sufficient deterrent, then know that your pet human is now safely at home under the watchful eye of my son, Jeremy.”

  Miriam’s boyfriend is Aspen’s progeny? I think I might be sick. And it explains how Aspen found out that I killed Miriam’s attacker. She told her boyfriend.

  I narrow my eyes, wondering how the hell this deceitful web came to be, because it clearly started before I arrived in Phoenix.

  “I care not for the human,” I say. “Kill her. Turn her. I merely gave her my blood to keep her alive so that I might see what she knew,” I lie. After all, Aspen doesn’t know if I came into all this with information of my own.

  “Her fate will be decided by Jeremy, who, for the record, seems rather fond of her, though he’s not opposed to killing her for the good of our society.”

  “Your point?” I ask.

  “Your librarian will remain safe, but Lula must take the fall for Clive’s death.”

  “Motherfu—” I lunge for Aspen, and he tumbles backwards. I wrap my hands around his neck.

  “We already have Lula,” he grunts. “So both women die if you don’t release me.”

  I quickly get a hold of myself and toss him across the room into the wall. He has leverage. I do not. Yet. But he is utterly delusional if he believes he can get away with this.

  Aspen rubs his neck and scrapes himself off the floor.

  “Mr. Aspen?” Viviana appears in the doorway, worry written all over her face.

  “Go back to your desk,” he snarls.

  “Oh-okay.” She nods submissively and leaves.

  Aspen straightens out his cuffs, giving each sleeve a hard tug. “I was told you were smart, Mr. Vanderhorst, but now, I’m not so sure.” He narrows his blue eyes. “You seem about as wise and powerful as an infant.”

  “This won’t end well for you, Aspen.”

  “Then it won’t end well for your human.” He shrugs. “Or Lula. But I suppose the choice is yours. Choose one to live. Or…let both die and tell the council what you think is going on. Either way, you have no proof, and they won’t believe you.”<
br />
  “Then why do you need my compliance?” I growl.

  “I prefer not to have any hassles, but I am prepared for them either way.”

  I am no fool. I know very well when it is time to retreat and regroup.

  “I’ll be in touch.” I dip my head and head for the stairs.

  As I pass Viviana, she looks away, shame written all over her face. You’re next in line to die, I think. But first things first. I have to prepare for battle.

  No one touches my family.

  And no one messes with my librarian.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When I get to my car in the society parking lot, there is a small piece of folded paper jammed into the crease of the driver’s side window. I look over my shoulder and then open it. The handwritten note says Lula at Kline’s tonight @8. B careful.

  I can only assume Viviana wrote it—perhaps to help. Perhaps not. Either way, I don’t trust her, and she is correct; I must be careful. Too much is at stake.

  Aspen has Lula and Miriam. Of course, I see from the way he set all this up, what he really wants is Lula. And he wants her without a hassle from me because killing me would raise too much suspicion with the council—two leaders of the Cincinnati Society dead within a week.

  I arrive to my studio apartment, finding the door wide open and a scent of fear lingering in the air.

  Lula…

  I also see that someone took Clive’s can, opened it, and dumped the contents down the kitchen sink.

  Though my heart wants to weep, I hold it all in and focus on the facts—what I know and what I do not know.

  One, Aspen isn’t without allies, and I must assume that could include someone on the council, someone old enough to know who Clive truly was.

  Two, if Aspen had wanted Miriam dead, she would be gone by now. And, given that she is bonded to Jeremy, and now knowing what I do about the mental cluster a bond creates, Jeremy will protect her. All right, at a minimum, he will not kill her unless it serves him.

  Three, since someone must be held accountable for Clive’s death (and no vampire in his or her right mind would believe that Miriam bested Clive) it is Lula they’ve chosen to take the fall. My bet is they will come up with a story—that they tried to apprehend her and she resisted, ending in her death. Really what they want is a solid cover for Clive’s murder.

  Four, they know who Clive really was and that he made Lula. I cannot see them letting her blood go to waste. They plan to drink her, which will make them stronger.

  Five, they know I am not your everyday vampire. Because of my lineage and age, it is a given that I didn’t get this old by taking crap from a bunch of sadistic, sunshine-worshipping, money whores. And my blood is also valuable. My conclusion: they will find a way to kill me, too, eventually. Or perhaps the party tonight is a trap, one where they can tell the council that I came seeking revenge for Lula’s death and that they had no choice but to defend themselves.

  Yes, they are expecting me to show up, guns blazing, to rescue Lula.

  All of these facts bring me to one conclusion: It is time to dust off four hundred years of vampire skills, including every trick Clive taught me and everything I’ve learned over the course of eight professions.

  Also, it looks like I’m going to a party.

  I’m one hundred percent certain that Aspen has his people following me given it is what I would do. So before I begin preparations, my first task is to lose them.

  Profession #1: game hunter and fur trapper in the 1600s. Taught myself to avoid detection, stalk prey, and to use a bow and arrow. I am also fairly handy with a knife.

  I pull up into the airport parking lot to find my hippy friend at the car rental counter, playing a video game on his phone.

  “Hey, remember me?” I offer my most charming smile.

  “Hey.” He looks at me briefly and jerks his head.

  “I am having engine problems. Can you come outside with me and look?”

  “I don’t know anything about cars, dude. Let me call the mechan—”

  “No. It must be you.” I slide a hundred-dollar bill across the counter. “And if you also let me cut your hair and swap clothes with me, I will throw in another hundred.” I slide another bill across the counter. “And then you will go outside, take my car, get on the highway, and keep driving until you run out of gas—I mean battery.” I slide an envelope stuffed with about two thousand dollars across the counter.

  He takes a step back. “Errr… Dude, what is thi—”

  “Just say yes.” I give him my signature death-threat look, and unlike the time with the children, this time, I get it right.

  “Yes?” he peeps.

  “That’s a good boy. Now let’s go outside and fix my engine problem.” I want my reason for being here to look legit.

  Twenty minutes later, we’ve removed and replaced the air filter for show, and he and I are in the employee bathroom, where I give him my haircut. Profession #6: barber in the mid-1800s.

  “That looks quite nice,” I say. “And I was right. You have very nice bone structure.”

  He shrugs. “What next?”

  “We trade clothes, and might I add, you really should do the laundry more than once a month.”

  “My mom lives really far—like forty minutes.”

  I nod, trying not to slap his face. “A real man does his own laundry or pays a service. One does not wait for mommy to tell us when we stink.”

  “Whatever.”

  “All right, hand ’em over,” I say.

  He begins to strip. “You know this is really weird, right?”

  “Just remember to get in the car like I told you, drive straight to the highway, and keep going.”

  “What do I do when I run out of juice?” he asks.

  “You stay in the car until roadside service comes.”

  With luck, this will buy me an hour before they realize I’ve slipped away.

  We both dress, and I give him a quick once-over. He is almost exactly my height, though he has a thinner build, thus the reason I put on a bulky dark sweater and blazer before leaving my studio. With his similar brown shade of hair, he definitely passes for me from a distance.

  “Good. Now get going.” I push him out the door of the back room, and I wait for him to go outside. I watch through the plate-glass window as he gets into my blue rental. The moment he does, I slip out the back way, down the block, to an awaiting Uber on the corner.

  Once I’m sure no one has followed, I make my way to another rental place several miles down the road. This time, I get the fastest car I can in case my plan tonight goes wrong.

  Of course, it won’t. I happen to be very skilled at performing dangerous and complex tasks. Remember when I said that three hundred years ago, the vampires who resisted our new laws were hunted down and executed? Meet the retired executioner.

  Profession #2: assassin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  By nightfall, everything’s in place, and I park down the street from the recently deceased Bob Kline’s private estate, the location for this evening’s party.

  I take a sip of my scalding hot triple latte and make one final rundown of everything. I cannot make one mistake tonight, and that includes keeping my emotions in check.

  8:30 p.m. Time to go. I set my coffee in the cup holder, flip down the visor, pop in my crooked teeth, and smile. “You can do this. You are a badass.”

  I reach for the bag on the passenger seat and get out my Jovan Musk for men. I take a quick whiff and cringe—my head immediately begins to pound. I douse my neck, put it away, and grab my handkerchief. Next I dab a little coffee in the middle and place the crumpled wad in my pocket.

  “Showtime.”

  I start the engine of my red Ferrari and roar up the long private driveway lined with giant cacti. I come to a screeching halt at the valet station, cutting in front of the long line of cars.

  The crowd of people flowing inside the house give me side glances and frowns. Just as I hoped. r />
  “Keep Shirley close,” I say with a deep Texan accent to the valet once he opens the door. “I like to know she’s never far.”

  “Shirley?” the valet asks.

  “My car—surely you ain’t gonna scratch her or I’ll skin ya alive.” I snort loudly for effect, hand the guy a hundred, and strut toward the door, the heels of my black cowboy boots clacking on the sidewalk.

  Yes, this is my disguise—eccentric cowboy nerd, complete with beer belly, extra-wide hips, a fake nose, long blond beard, stringy wig, and a ten-gallon hat. I smell like I’ve just rolled out of a whorehouse and had a long night of gambling, thanks to the whiskey I spilled on my pants and the thirty minutes I spent at the local Indian casino before heading over.

  Profession #7: detective’s assistant, late 1900s. Skills acquired include surveillance, disguises, and hiding in plain sight. Especially around vampires. The belligerent cowboy was my all-time best costume.

  Almost to the grand front door with open double doors and a large crystal chandelier in the foyer, I see there’s a check-in table. Guess who is sitting there. Viviana.

  I push my right hand in my pocket, making sure to get it nice and moist with that coffee. Not only will it mask my smell, but the sweaty feel is a human thing. Vampires don’t sweat.

  I saunter up behind a woman in a black dress already at the table. She’s thin, middle-aged, and alone.

  Perfect.

  “Mary Withers,” the woman says to Viviana, who checks her off the list.

  “Welcome.” Viviana gives a polite nod. “Come in and help yourself to some refreshments. The festivities will begin in five minutes.”

  Five minutes. Good.

  Mary heads inside, and I step up, tipping my large black cowboy hat. “Well, howdy, beautiful lady.” I take Viviana’s hand and kiss the top, being sure to leave lots of palm sweat and warm slobber on her skin. Humans have warm saliva, and with the nice hot coffee I’ve just consumed, I am Mr. Toasty Moist Lips.