The Librarian's Vampire Assistant by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
“Brianna! It’s time to go!” a woman yells from inside the building.
I push on the library’s doors and find it vacant of the man’s scent but not of people.
“I don’t know where Miriam is,” yells a woman to her small daughter. “We’ll leave a note so she knows what we’ve checked out.”
Books overflow from the return slot to the side of the U-shaped counter, and it dawns on me that while Miriam has been fighting for her life, the library has been left unattended since yesterday, doors unlocked.
“I’ll help you with that.” I stride behind the counter and hold out my hand.
“Who are you?” the woman asks.
“Miriam’s new assistant.”
The woman looks me over, smiles, and hands me the books. “Well, I wasn’t aware she had a new helper—or such a handsome one.”
“Your card?” I continue holding out my hand, not wishing to encourage any flirtation. Besides, I’m still full from yesterday.
“Oh, sure.” She digs in her purse and produces a plastic card with a bar code and numbers. I have no clue what to do with it, but I assume there’s a system linked to the computer and wand-thing on the counter.
“Um, looks like the computer is down again. I’ll enter it manually later.” I gather the important information and hand back the books. “Here you are.”
“Are you going to do story time at one o’clock?” the woman asks.
“I, uh…” My eyes gravitate to the enormous ladybug sign on the wall that reads Storytime with Princess Miriam! Every day at 1 p.m.
It is noon.
I sigh with exasperation. “Yes. One o’clock,” I say blandly.
I contemplate finding a gory vampire story to scare the devil out of the children so they’ll never come back.
“See you then.” The woman winks and sticks out her chest.
I give her no notice and begin to berate myself for saying yes to story time. Why would I agree to such a ridiculous thing? Perhaps part of me is thinking of the poor librarian and how disappointed she would be if her library fell into shambles under the care of a cantankerous old vampire.
I do not like that idea. If anything, I am a perfectionist. I do things well or I don’t do them at all.
I rummage in the drawers behind the counter and find a laminated sheet with user names and passwords to the system. Aha!
I quickly get to work, playing around with the software, which is quite simple. Scan in, scan out. Within an hour, that’s all done, and I get to work loading the cart with returned books for shelving.
“Hey, mister,” says a tiny voice.
I look down to see a little blond boy with wide blue eyes.
“Yes?”
“It’s story time.” He points to the red carpet with colorful little chairs and the enormous plastic palm tree. “We want our story. Now,” he barks.
Oh, you want a story from the nice vampire, do ya? “Be right there.” I snarl under my breath.
He skips off, and I quickly run through my memories of favorite books. Well, there’s the Brothers Grimm. I’m liking Rumpelstiltskin today.
I quickly find the title on the shelves and take a seat in the makeshift throne in the corner. It looks like an old armchair that’s been covered in white faux fur. There are five children—two boys and three girls—all seated on the mat in front of it.
“Hat! Where’s the hat?” yells a little brunette girl, pointing to a pink cone with a flowing scarf on the top, hanging off the back of the chair.
“So you’re all regulars, then?” I say.
They nod, and one of the mothers, who’s sitting at a table reading something on her phone, pipes up, “A day without Miriam is like a day without sunshine.”
“All right, well, Miriam is not well today, and I’m filling in. My name is Michael, and I don’t wear hats or radiate sunshine.”
The children crinkle their noses at me.
“Let us begin.” I start reading the story with the dreariest of voices—the miller’s daughter, the lie of her supernatural gold-spinning abilities, her becoming a prisoner. So barbaric. When I get to the part where the king threatens to cut off the miller’s daughter’s head if she doesn’t spin the hay into gold, I stop and look up. I’m hoping that my scary, deep voice has them all trembling with fear so they’ll stay away tomorrow. But no. Their little eyes are wide with delight, and their tiny mouths are gaping open.
What is wrong with children today?
I keep going, now trying to make Rumpelstiltskin sound like a horrible monster. “Give me your firstborn child, and I’ll help you!” I roar and look up.
Still nothing.
I sigh and finish the ten-minute story, feeling like I’ve truly lost my touch. I’m centuries old. I just killed a man yesterday—drank his blood and threw him in a damned dumpster. Yet I cannot scare a bunch of children? I’m definitely losing my touch.
“And that’s all for today, everyone,” I say.
“Again! Again!” the kids yell.
All right, I’ve had about enough. I quickly make sure none of the parents are watching and flash a look at my audience—it’s the sort of look that spikes terror into the hearts of the most ruthless of vampires.
The kids shut their tiny pieholes, but then start to laugh. “Again, again, again.”
Oh, I give up! I stand and set down the book. “Michael has work to do. Have a pleasant day, everyone.”
I quickly get back to my cart and start reshelving books. This is the most tedious work in the world. I cannot believe anyone would go to college for it let alone choose it as their lifelong profession.
I look at my watch and realize that despite my abhorrence, I’ve managed to spend an hour and a half here.
What am I thinking? Miriam is unguarded. Tonight, once visiting hours are over, she’ll be safer, as strangers aren’t permitted to roam freely, but this moment is another story.
I go into Miriam’s office in search of her keys to lock up. Instead I am greeted by her monster piles of books and dust.
I resist the urge to clean up for her. Dust and clutter are a sign of disrespect of one’s self.
I dig through her top drawer and—
“What is this?” I pull out the book. It appears to be one of those explicit romance novels—if one could dare to call them novels, which implies they are a form of literature.
I chuckle. There’s a woman with long blonde hair on the cover, in the embrace of a man wearing a black cape.
“Fanged Love?” I laugh at the title. “Well, well, well, seems our little librarian has a thing for vampires.”
It makes me wonder what she would say if she knew the truth about me.
Not happening. I pull myself back. I am here for Clive. That is all. As soon as justice is served, I am back to my life in Cincinnati, where I am respected and comfortable.
I return the book to its hiding spot and notice her brown leather purse sitting on her chair. Inside are—“Oh. Those things.” They are of the monthly womanly sort, so I try not to touch them. “And those things?” A pack of birth control. I snarl at the flat round plastic container. I cannot stand the thought of her, or any woman, seeking comfort in the arms of a man like Miriam’s boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend, I think proudly. Oh, keys! I grab them, slide her purse under her desk, and dash out.
“The library is closing early today! Please head to the exit,” I yell and go to the door.
“Excuse me?” says a young woman in a baseball cap. “I still have books to check—”
“It is an urgent matter. Life or death. Please come back tomorrow.” I hold open the door, tapping my foot as the patrons clear out. “Chop-chop, everyone. Chop-chop.” Do not make the mean vampire cranky.
With everyone out, I lock the door behind me and head back to the hospital on foot. While I’m hating the feel of my tennis shoes and cooking in my black jeans, I realize I’m walking faster than I should in broad daylight.
It is not what you
Then it hits me, and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known.
I stop walking and my breath freezes. She’s awake. I can’t see or hear her, but a part of me keenly feels her worry and pain. Her skin is cold, too.
I run my hand through my hair. Why didn’t Clive ever tell me that this is what a bond feels like? Four hundred years, and he never thought to say anything more than to “be careful” whom I give my blood to. Yes, I am partly to blame for not asking, but shouldn’t he have insisted on educating me about the basics? I will forever worry for this woman more than I care for myself.
This is not good.
CHAPTER NINE
“Michael?” Miriam says with a frail voice, lying back in her bed, her head propped up with a pile of pillows. “What are you doing here?”
Her brown eyes are bloodshot but lucid. I can’t help but smile to see her alive and not undead.
“I just came to check on you, sis,” I say, lifting my brows so she gets the gist. “How are you feeling?”
She sits up in her pale blue gown, tubes sticking from her arm. “I’m not sure. What happened?” Miriam’s eyes shift nervously to the nurse tending her IV.
I shrug. “I wish I knew. I showed up when they were loading you into the ambulance. The police said something about a random assault?” I take a seat at the foot of the bed. “How do you feel?” I stare deeply into her eyes, soaking in the view of the glorious life radiating from them.
She watches the nurse leave and then hisses, “What’s going on?”
“I told them I’m your brother so they’d let me see you,” I whisper.
“No. I mean, why are you here?”
Now there is a tricky question. “Well, after the interview, I found a résumé in my car”—a lie—“and came back to give it to you just in time to see your boyfriend perform a hit, hit, and run.”
“My boyfriend? That pig is not my boyfriend.” She looks away, and I see her blonde hair is matted on one side.
Dear God, kill me, but I want to brush it. This bond thing is a nightmare.
“Then who?” I ask.
She doesn’t budge.
“Listen,” I say, “there is no reason to lie to me. So you made a bad choice—hooked up with the wrong man. Who hasn’t been there?”
She gives me a look.
“All right.” I hold up my palms. “I haven’t. But I’m not here to judg—”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Her tiny nostrils flare.
“Then who?”
“It’s a long story.”
She doesn’t want to tell me. Very well. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, and that includes twisting her arm with a white lie. “If you don’t come clean, then he’ll only be back. Then what?”
Obviously, he’s not returning, because I drank him up. And he was tasty, too. The bad ones always are.
“It’s not your concern.” She frowns with fearful brown eyes. “Just go. I don’t need some college kid mixed up in all this.”
Her words are like a blow to the groin, and I’m unsure which comment stings more: that I’m too young or that it’s not my concern. Can she not feel our connection?
Perhaps sensing the bond takes time with mortals.
“Miriam, I’ve already been helping out at your library while you’ve been away. If something’s going on, then now I’m involved, and I deserve to know what it is.”
“You were working? At my library?” She simmers.
I shrug. “Yeah, well, you were kind of indisposed, and I couldn’t leave the place unattended.”
She nods and then lets out a slow breath. “Thank you.”
“You can thank me by telling me who he is.”
Mulling, she shakes her head. Whatever is going on, I can tell she’s ashamed.
Finally, she breaks. “That man is a thug from the Carlitos crime family. They’re part of a Mexican drug cartel.”
And I killed one of them? Uh-oh. Not that I fear for myself—my kind happens to love cartels. They’re easy pickin’s because the authorities do not ask many questions when a member disappears. The revenge factor, on the other hand, warrants a big throaty groan. People like them usually seek vengeance and hit hard. Meaning, if they suspect Miriam was involved—and why wouldn’t they if she was the last person to see the guy—they’ll come looking for answers.
They already have. I think of the man from earlier who slipped away and, now that I think about it, very much tried to kill her.
“What?” Miriam says, noting my distress.
I don’t want to frighten her, so it’s best she doesn’t know. “Uhhh…nothing. How did you get mixed up with people like that?”
“I didn’t. They mixed with me. A friend of theirs, some big developer, wants to buy my building, and I refused.”
“You own the building?”
“My parents passed away last year, and I inherited it, the library, and everything else.”
So the library, though open to the public, is private and all Miriam’s. Yet again, she’s managed to intrigue me. Especially the part about her standing up to a bunch of thugs trying to take her library.
“Ah, the classic tale of greed, unscrupulous cads, and land grabs.” I scratch my stubbled chin.
“Huh?” She gives me a look.
Darnit. I must remember to speak my age. “It was a joke.” I shrug. “A college-kid thing.”
She nods. “Whatever. But now you understand why I can’t have you getting involved.”
“Why haven’t you gone to the authorities?” I ask.
“I did, and I thought I’d taken care of the whole thing.”
“By doing…?”
She sighs. “I got a restraining order against Bob Kline, the developer—he kept bullying and threatening me. I heard rumors that he had connections with the cartel, but I never imagined he’d resort to this.”
A big mistake on his part, because Miriam is not without friends.
“Well, today is your lucky day, then, because I know a guy who can help.” And I’ll give you a hint: he’s deadly, well educated, very handsome, and enjoys long digs in the desert.
“No! Absolutely not,” she protests. “And you’re too young to know ‘a guy.’ I’ll handle this myself.”
Dear God, woman! You’re driving me mad with the ageism. Mad, I say!
“Miriam, I’m a grown man—albeit very youthful in appearance and virile—but I, too, can handle myself.” I stand. “Besides, I’m not asking, and you’re in no position to argue.”
She’s furious. I literally feel her rage. Our bond is most interesting.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” she snarls.
“Too late.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” I walk over and gently embrace her. “You worry about getting better.”
Her entire body goes stiff, and I quickly pull away, noting that her heart rate has accelerated and her emotions have moved from anger to fear.
“Look, uh, Michael. You’re a very nice young man, I’m sure. And I know you mean well, but I’m not interested in you. Not like that. I think it’s best if you leave now.”
I stare down at her, attempting to decipher why my presence is wholly unwanted. “Wait. You think I’m some sort of stalker?”
“Well, I barely know you and—”
“And here I am at your bedside, telling you I’ll take care of you and hugging you. Meaning, I just came off as entirely creepy.”
She nods with an awkward grimace. “Yes.”
I’m confused. Why does she not feel our bond? Once again, I find myself entirely fascinated by this woman. I cannot help it. Anything out of the ordinary is like candy to my kind. And this one is like a shiny new lollipop.
Perhaps it takes time for a human to feel the connection. Perhaps she has too many drugs in her system. Either way, time will tell.
??
“Your girlfriend. Really?”
I sense the relief washing through her. My story has worked.
“Really,” I say. “I’m just a person who helps others out of the kindness of his heart—just like you.” True, actually.
“Sorry I said all that. But I am not joking about you staying away from my mess.”
I nod. “I understand. But I still need that job”—it’s my cover—“so…?”
“I’ll talk to the police. They’ll handle it. You just be careful, and if you see anyone hanging around, call 911.”
“Got it.”
“And I know it’s a lot to ask, since I haven’t trained you yet, but could you please keep holding down the fort at the library? I have no idea when they’ll let me out of here.”
Wonderful. More smelly, dusty library time. “Absolutely, though I don’t know if I can keep the library open so late. Do you have any other part-time help?”
“No. My old assistant stopped showing up one day, and it’s been hard to find a replacement.”
“Well, you found someone now.”
Her brown eyes glow with relief, and shockingly, it pains me. I’m guessing she’s been on her own since her parents died. No one has looked after her, let alone cared.
“Thank you, Michael. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I smile and gaze down at her with affection—the platonic friendship kind. “No need to thank me. I am your assistant, and I’m here to assist. Get some rest. I’ll be by to check on you later and introduce Lula.”
I leave, thinking that I have a bit of time to go see Mr. Aspen for an update on the Clive situation. The Carlitos people likely think Miriam is dead, and by the time they figure out she’s not, Lula will be here. And I will hopefully have taken care of them.
As for this developer, he too will be getting a visit from a very angry librarian’s assistant.
Once outside the room, I slide my phone from my jeans pocket and dial Lula, who answers immediately.
“Uh-oh. What did you do now?” She groans.