“Miriam? What happened?” I ask, noting how light she feels in my arms and how petite her body is next to mine. She fits perfectly in my grasp.
“What…what…” she groans.
“Ohmygod! Did she just fall?” A woman with a brown ponytail rushes over. I recognize her as one of the mothers from yesterday’s story time.
“Yes,” I reply.
“But how did you catch her?” the woman questions.
“I pump iron. Lots of it,” I add, knowing I sound like an idiot.
“Michael!” Lula rushes to my side. “What the…”
I give her a stern look. “You are supposed to be watching her.”
“But I…she was…fine.”
Vampire blood or not, the body still needs to heal. “Please go find some water for her. There’s a small kitchen in the back.”
Lula nods, and I carry Miriam over to a red couch in the lounging area. I gently set her down.
“Miriam?” I tap her cheek. “Can you hear me?”
Her brown eyes focus on my face. “Mike?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“What are you doing?” she asks, groggy.
“You fell off the ladder. I caught you. What happened?”
“I-I don’t know. I was putting away a book, and then everything got all blurry, and now here I am.”
“You’re still healing from your injuries, Miriam. You shouldn’t be up on ladders or working at all.”
She slowly sits up, and I place my hand on her warm back, enjoying the sensation.
“I felt fine. I swear.” She presses her hands to her forehead.
“I’m sure you did, but you need to give yourself more time. Why don’t I take you home? Lula can watch over the library.”
She bobs her head, and I cannot lie; my heart beats a little faster. I like the idea of being alone with her. I want to get to know her.
“Thank you. That sounds good,” she says.
Just then Lula shows up with a cup of water in her hand.
“I’m taking Miriam home,” I inform her. “Can you stay and watch over things here?”
“Sure. Of course,” says Lula.
I give Lula a look, one she knows well but no one else would ever interpret. It means I have other plans for her.
“Thank you, Lula,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
She shrugs. “After my weekend orgy, it’s the least I can do.”
I stare at her stone-cold face. I will have to school her on the fine art of impersonating a human’s girlfriend later. Even if she did sleep with all those men last weekend, which I’m sure she did, she can’t tell people that if we’re supposed to be a couple.
“Thanks, honey,” I say and scoop Miriam into my arms. She nestles her warm face into the crook of my neck, and it sends shivers down my spine and back up again. It’s been centuries since I felt such strong feelings for anyone, but I cannot deny that keeping her close and safe makes me happy.
Is this love?
Most certainly not. I never even loved when I was human. I only knew sex and lust. Women were objects of desire to be enjoyed and then tossed aside or married for their fortune.
Yes, yes. I was a pig; however, in the 1600s things were different. Men avoided affairs of the heart at all costs because it might cost them everything—rank, inheritance, and the respect of other men. Only the needy and weak “fell” in love, thus the term. One did not rise to love. One did not aspire to it. A man simply fell—to disgrace, to weakness, to ridicule because it meant he did not have control over his life. The woman did.
For this reason, I never entertained such a thing, and now it is not an option.
I take Miriam to my car and help her into the passenger seat. I crouch to buckle her in, and when the latch snaps, I freeze. Our mouths are inches apart and our eyes are locked for a long awkward moment. I feel my pulse quicken and my stomach tighten.
“Michael, no,” she says with regret and blinks at me.
I pull away and chuckle. “Miriam, you really are ill. I’m merely fastening your seatbelt.”
The shame red is instant on her face. “I’m so sorry. I thought for a moment…” Her words fade. “It’s just that I have a boyfriend.”
“You do?” Why has she never mentioned him?
She nods. “He’s away right now on a dig in Egypt.”
“An archeologist? How interesting.” If he’s real, I hate him already. Archeologists are always snobby intellectual types who act as though they know the darkest secrets of man.
Wrong. I am the darkest secret of man.
“When does he return?” I add.
“Next month.”
“Well, you should call him and tell him to hurry home. Given everything going on, you shouldn’t be alone.”
She bobs her head, and I close her door before coming around to the driver’s side. I slide in, trying not to look stunned. She has a damned boyfriend!
“He doesn’t know about all this,” she mutters once I start the engine. “I thought if I told him, he wouldn’t go on his trip, and then I’d feel so bad—digging in Egypt is his dream.”
I reach over and pat her hands, which are folded atop her thigh. “It’s a testament to your selflessness and loyalty, Miriam. Traits to be admired.”
Yes, she feels loyal to his well-being. I can sense it, and I think I like her all the more because of it.
“So where are we off to?” I ask, pulling out my phone and quickly taking the opportunity to text Lula.
Me: Lock up the library, wait for night, and go to this address. I need you to check it out. Do not get too close.
I add the address that Viviana gave me for the Carlitos crime family.
Lula: Not another danger mission!
Me: No, Lula. And grow up. You are 2X-V8. Spank anyone who gets in your way.
In other words, she is a vampire times two centuries. It is a well-known fact that with every century of life, our powers increase twofold. If I could run twenty miles per hour as a newbie, I could run forty as a vampire of one hundred years old. My strength doubled. The point is, Lula underestimates herself. I always overestimate her. But doing a little cartel spying is right up her alley.
Lula: Hate you.
Me: Love you, too.
I chuckle and look at Miriam. “So where to?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Remember what I said about librarians not living in mansions? Scrap that. The moment we pull up the long driveway cutting through a rocky desert hillside overlooking the valley below, I realize there is much more to Miriam’s story.
“I think you are the only one in your profession who lives like a Kardashian,” I say as we pass through a set of iron gates, and I park my blue Skittle in her circular driveway.
Miriam’s pale cheeks flush. “My parents invested wisely and left behind a nice insurance policy—crap. I really shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” she says quietly.
“Because people knowing you have money leaves you ripe for vultures and gold diggers, I imagine.”
“You’d be right,” she says.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I reject all forms of attachments derived from materialism.”
She laughs softly. “God, Mike. You’re like a breath of fresh air.”
I want to burst out with laughter. To call an old cynical vampire a “breath of fresh air” is like calling a turd “spring fresh.”
I turn off the engine. “If the men you date make you doubt, for even a fraction of a moment, how wonderful and beautiful you are, then you are definitely dating the wrong sort of men.”
“Am I getting dating advice from a college guy who is in a relationship with a nympho?” She chuckles softly.
My jaw drops, and I try not to laugh. “She is not a nympho. She is…a free spirit who enjoys sex. With random men. Sometimes five at a time—okay, she’s a nympho, but the heart wants what it wants, and Lula is—”
“Incredible. I mean that. She’s wow. Funny, full of life, and so passionate.”
I nod. “Yes. All those things.”
“Then you do love her?”
Love? Lula? Another vampire? We simply do not go there. I need Lula like I needed Clive.
“She is everything to me,” I lie. Because Miriam is now part of my need. It’s halfsies all the way.
“She must be if you still love her after she slept with ten guys in one night.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. What the bloody hell? I thought it was five. Was there a full moon last weekend or something?
I smile stiffly. “The heart wants what the heart wants.” And I want to kick the snot out of Lula for humping so many men in one night and then placing me in the position of having to pretend I’m her boyfriend who’s completely okay with it. Very emasculating.
“Let us change subjects, shall we?” I say.
“Sure. Sorry. I know it must still be a sore spot for you.”
Not nearly as sore as your having a boyfriend and that I will have to share you.
I exit the car and walk around to open Miriam’s door. It is almost one in the afternoon, and I think I feel my eyelids singeing from the bright sun. I must hurry her inside.
“You’re such a gentleman,” she says.
Yes, yes. I know. I take her hand and help her out, trying to move her along. “How are you feeling now?”
“Perfectly fine.”
I feel her heart rate accelerate, and she radiates worry.
“Then why do I detect some unease in your tone?” I ask as we head up the flagstone walkway, past a beautiful cactus garden, leading to her front door, which is an expensive wrought-iron piece made by hand. I know workmanship, and this is lovely. The adobe-style home, too, is impressive—several stories high, large windows, and exposed wooden beams protruding from the roofline.
She pulls a key from her brown leather purse—the one I snooped through yesterday. “I don’t know. It’s just…” She looks up at me with those brown eyes. “They said my neck was broken and my skull was fractured. How can I feel fine after that? It’s just not possible.”
Yesterday at the hospital she joked about “the miracle,” but now it’s all catching up to her, and I’m not surprised. I recall the topic coming up with Clive once when we discussed the healing properties of our blood. Clive said that in order to avoid suspicion, we must allow the person to come to their own conclusion, which they normally do—divine intervention, an incorrect diagnosis to begin with, or complete denial. The human brain is wired to explain the unexplainable because mysteries make them feel like their lives lack control. It makes humans feel vulnerable.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” I say.
She looks at her hand, the one holding the key and turning the lock. “I’ve never heard of anything that could explain a person coming back from the edge of death in the space of twelve hours.”
I raise my brows. “That soon? Wow. Really does sound mysterious. Or…human error?” I suggest, realizing that I have just broken my own damned rule. Let her come to her own conclusions. It is not as if she’s miraculously going to believe in vampires and guess that I helped her live.
“I wish I knew, but I suppose that’s what books are for. To help us make sense of our lives.” She pushes open her front door, and my jaw hits the floor.
I step inside the small foyer, with gleaming hardwood floors, to get the full view of her massive living room. “Wow.” Her public library is miniature compared to this.
The circular living room is an open, three-story space with a domed glass ceiling. The second and third floors, similar to the library, are really just catwalks with wrought-iron railings and ten layers of shelves. The floor space is the size of an ice hockey rink, perhaps two hundred feet across.
I turn to Miriam. “What did you say your parents did?”
“My mother was a librarian, but my father came from old money. His family built this collection over hundreds of years.”
“This is incredible,” I say. “How many books are here?”
“Compared to the great libraries of the world, it’s very modest sized—about five million items—but that includes maps, sheet music, and vinyl. We have a basement and additional rooms in the east wing.”
For the first time in, well, I cannot remember, I have no words.
I go to the center of the room—where there are several fine leather couches, an exquisite Persian rug, and an enormous coffee table—and do a slow three-sixty. “Remember when I said that I reject all forms of attachments derived from materialism? Forget that. I’d gold dig the hell out of you for this many books. I have a complete book boner.”
“What!” Miriam bursts out laughing.
I smile, but I’m not entirely joking. I mean… “Really, I do not think any sane man could possibly resist a woman with this many books. It’s entirely too sexy.”
She goes into hiccup-laughter mode. “Oh, God. Stop.” Tears form in her eyes as she tries to stand upright. “You’re killing me.”
“What?” I hold out my hands, not getting what’s so funny.
Her laughter finally sputters out. “Thank you for that. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.”
I look at her glowing face and feel the joy in her words as they flow from her heart into mine.
“I am glad to make you laugh when you’ve had a rough…” Whatthedevil? I freeze and my skin goes ice cold.
“Michael? What’s wrong?”
It takes a moment for my brain to process, but there is a strong smell in the air. Vampire! A vampire has been here, and it wasn’t Lula, Clive, Aspen, or anyone else I know.
“We must go,” I say, dreading another trip outside in that sunshine. But it is not safe here.
“What? Why?”
I can’t tell her why. “I have a bad feeling.”
Miriam’s eyes frown, but her pink little lips smile. “You’re being paranoid. This place is a fortress.”
No. It is not. A vampire has most definitely been in here. My best guess would naturally be another of Bob Kline’s associates.
Nevertheless, I have no explanation to offer Miriam, and, certainly, disclosing what I am is not a choice.
“Ummm—okay. Don’t laugh, but…” I look down at Miriam. “I’m psychic,” I lie.
Her attempt to humor me lasts all of three seconds. “Ha! Okay! You had me there for a minute.”
“No.” I grab her arm firmly. “I am not joking, Miriam. And if I must prove it, I will tell you that the last thing you cooked in the kitchen was microwaved meatloaf,” it has a strange scent, as it is not real meat and smells of chemicals, “you use Pantene shampoo,” I can smell it in her hair, and it’s a commonly used product for women in this age, “and though you love this house with everything in your soul because it reminds you of your beloved mother and father, some days you want to burn it all to the ground because it pains you to think about them and you want to move on.” That last part was a guess, but I had to go for it.
Miriam’s tiny pink lips part and her mouth flaps. “How—how do you know all that?”
I stare with my dark eyes into hers, projecting my sincerity. “Because I am psychic. It’s not a lie.” And for the final nail in the coffin: “There are chocolate chip cookies hidden behind that book.” I point to a thick leather-bound edition of The Anthropology of Modern Man.
“How did you…nobody knows…” She closes her flapping mouth and places a hand over her heart. “Wow. Okay. Okay. There are stranger things in the universe, so…okay.” She throws her hands up.
That was easy. Is there a giant red plastic button to thank?
“So what do we do now?” she asks.
I’m taken off guard. I didn’t expect her to believe me so quickly. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We’ll figure out next steps once you are somewhere safe.” Obviously, she is safe at my side. There isn’t a vampire who can best me. Nevertheless, I would rather n
ot risk a confrontation with my precious librarian in the midst.
My cell phone vibrates, and I pull it from my pocket. It’s Lula. “Hello?”
“Mr. Vanderhorst! Ohmygod. Ohmygod!” Lula screams.
In the two hundred years that I’ve known Lula, she has never once screamed my name like that, and it spikes a chill through my heart. “What’s happened?”
“They’re dead. All of them.”
My mind scrambles. “Who? Where are you?”
“The people at the creepy cartel ranch. I went early to scope it out, but I could smell the bodies from ten miles away. There must be fifty dead people here—all sucked dry.”
What the carnations? I do not have a clue what to make of it. “Leave. Leave now. I’ll meet you at our place.”
“See you there.”
The call ends, and I look down at Miriam. Every cell in her body pulses with fear.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I place my hand on her cheek and hope my voice calms her. “Nothing I cannot fix.”
She nods and places her hand over mine. The heat of her touch is soothing. “I can’t do this, Michael.”
“Sorry.” I snatch my hand away, feeling her distress.
“No. I don’t mean that. You—we—are fine. I mean, this place and that library are all I have. These books are my life. If Bob Kline and his goons want to try to take them from me, then I would rather die fighting than give up.”
I smile softly at her feisty little face.
“Then it is a fight they shall get, Miriam. And it is a fight I will help you win. But we must make our move a calculated one when the time is right. Understand?”
She looks at me, and I feel the warmth of affection glowing inside her. “Are you sure you’re eighteen?”
“I am twenty. Why do you ask?”
“Because I could swear just now I was speaking with a man from the Dark Ages.”
“Nope. Restoration Era, all the way.”
She chuckles, thinking it’s a joke. “I love that you get the difference—I need to meet your parents someday. They’ve done an amazing job of educating you.”
I flash a tight smile. “Sure.” We can visit their three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old graves at the First Presbyterian Church of Southold in New York. From what I could gather, they expired a few years after I turned during a flu epidemic in the colonies. Sadly, because I’d been sent to school near London at the age of ten, I hardly knew either of them. I was raised by a governess and not a very nice one. She was the first person I ate—something I feel bad about even until this day. But for the record, she was really mean.