Adventures of a Vegan Vamp: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (14 page)

“So you move from house to house to house…”

Wembley shrugged. “Not always. I move when it suits me. I’m experiencing a footloose and fancy-free mood currently.”

I finished off my margarita and wondered when exactly those groceries would be arriving. My stomach seemed to have a personality of its own now. A demanding, tetchy personality. “Wait a second, how long has this particular mood lasted?”

He scratched his beard. “2008, or was it 2010? More than five years, less than ten. As long as I break even, I’m happy—but I usually make a little money.”

Clearly, Wembley had some other means of support. I hated to ask, but at some point, someone was going to have to explain how long we lived, stayed hidden, paid taxes.

“The new bathroom is gorgeous. I’ll give you a tour in a bit.”

The doorbell rang, and Wembley rubbed his hands together. “Groceries!”

But he didn’t head straight for the front door. He detoured to the kitchen, pulled a revolver out of one of the drawers, and said, “Wait here.”

“No way.” I wasn’t missing how this was going down. What the heck was he thinking?

“All right, at least open the door for me if I ask.”

“Will do.”

“Just a minute!” Wembley hugged the hall wall and motioned for me to do the same. “Who is it?”

“Hey, Mr. Wembley. It’s Chris from the grocery store. I have your delivery.”

Wembley inhaled deeply, seemed satisfied with the result, and proceeded to check the peephole. He tucked the revolver in his waistband, pulled his shirt over the resulting bulge, and opened the door. “Good to see you again, Chris.” He pulled some crumpled bills out of his front pocket and handed them to the kid after I’d taken the box he was carrying.

“I’ve got one more in the car, sir.”

“I’ll just walk on out with you.” Wembley motioned for me to stay inside.

He came back a few moments later carrying the second box of groceries. “Do you have no sense of self-preservation?”

“Do you really keep a gun in your kitchen drawer?” I closed the front door behind him and picked up the first box from where I’d deposited it in the hallway.

“It’s the only weapon I have that I can still use competently. Swords take regular practice, useful as they are. Guns as well, but less so. I’m low-key these days. I stay out of the major conflict zones. But Alex said carry a weapon.”

“Do we live in the same city? What major conflict zones?”

“It’s not about geography—not usually. It’s about allegiances.” Wembley stashed the revolver back in the kitchen drawer. “Remind me to put that thing back in the safe tomorrow. I’d hate for one of the workers to stumble on it. It would completely ruin the chill, hippie vibe I have going.”

“Right, because that’s the biggest concern with an unsecured weapon in your house.”

“Don’t judge; it’s not a good look on you.” He scratched his beard. “Any chance you can handle a sword? I might have just the thing—”

“No.”

“You don’t know until you try. It might be fun.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“I’m starving. Food experimentation first, and if I’m not too exhausted from puking my guts up—I’ll have a look.”

“Ha!” Wembley clapped his hands. “I knew it. I can tell. There’s a little precog in my family.” He tapped the side of his nose.

“Sure thing, Wembley. So what did you get?” I started to root around in the box I’d placed on the new granite counter. “Eggs—are you thinking eggnog?”

“Sure. Let’s do eggnog.” He looked taken with the idea.

“Did you have any kind of plan?”

“Nope. Just picked out a bunch of stuff and figured we’d give it a go. But I do have a primo food processor that will just about liquefy stone. So I think we’re set up for success here.”

And it turned out that we were set up for success. Mostly. Raw beef, cooked beef, any kind of beef, even if pureed until it looked like vile soup gone bad—no luck.

I really used to love beef. We gave it enough tries that I inadvertently subjected myself to aversion therapy, so beef was off the menu for the foreseeable future. Eggnog tasted fabulous going down, less so coming up. But we had great luck with fruits and veggies. And spinach and mangos were especially appealing. Much more so than in my previous, fully human life. The vegan cheese didn’t come back up, but it was rough going down. The smell alone almost convinced me not to eat it. Figured that would be one of the winners.

I would hardly call the feeling I experienced satiation, but after we put a solid dent in the fruit and vegetable supply Wembley had ordered, I was almost not hungry.

“I think there has to be a way to add in some fats and protein. Those should help you feel more satisfied.”

“And I need more calories. I can’t eat nonstop all day to fulfill my calorie requirements. I need something densely packed with nutrients and calories. I think that’s why the vegan nutrition supplement shakes were helping a little.”

Wembley scribbled on a pad of paper. “A list of dos and don’ts and never-ever-agains.”

I took it and pocketed it. “Perfect. Thank you. I’m in a positively buoyant state of mind. There’s some kind of food in my future, which is very good news.”

“Buoyant sounds like a good state of mind to meet a sword or two. Come on.”

Wembley headed for the garage, and I balked.

“No chance you’ve stashed your swords with the blood…”

“No. It’s fine. Come on.” He opened the garage door and said over his shoulder, “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

I followed him into the dark garage feeling a little like the kid who said yes to the candy.

Then the lights came on, and all I could do was stare. He’d revamped the roomy two-car garage to be one part place to park your car and one part incredibly cool workshop.

“Aren’t you worried about all of this being in the garage?”

“Nah. I’ve got a separate window unit to run when it’s steamy—you know, six months out of the year—and I think that’ll keep it reasonably comfortable.”

“I meant theft, but that’s also good to know.”

“No, it’s pretty secure. New anti-theft garage doors. Trying to be security conscious and all that. That’s why I’ve got the blood and the swords out here.”

“You have more than one sword.” I shook my head. “And what’s with the swords? I’d think guns would be much more useful.”

“Bite your tongue.” Wembley unlocked a chest and pulled out a sword and scabbard. “This one is a beauty.”

I nodded in appreciation, though all I could see was the embossed leather scabbard. Then he pulled out a second, much more worn—battered, even—scabbard.

I reached for it.

“Careful now,” he said, removing it from my reach. “Introductions should always be respectful, and that means no grabbing.”

If his hands hadn’t been full of sword, I suspected he would have smacked my hand.

“Sorry.”

And it was the second time he’d referenced the sword as if it were a person. Who met a sword or was introduced? Vamp culture was so weird. I bit my tongue and waited.

“Tangwystl. That’s the name of this particular sword. We’ll just give her a second to see if she has any interest in you.”

I pinched my lips together.

“What? Spit it out.”

“Her?”

“That’s right. She’s alive. Well, as alive as magic can make her.” He pulled the sword from its protective casing. And I could swear I heard soft singing, foreign words whispered then gone.

Wembley smiled. “I think she might like you.” He offered her the sword, hilt first. “Go ahead.”

Without grabbing, I reached for the handle and wrapped my fingers carefully around it. It felt lovely. As if it was weightless, yet had a solid heft. As if I could hold it in my hand forever, but hack a giant in half. It was a giddy feeling.

Light shone off the etchings in the metal—no, the etchings themselves shone.

“Is this sword glowing?”

“I told you she likes you. I think you’re about to be adopted.”

I tore my eyes away from the greenish-blue fire that seemed to swirl and dance, tracing each symbol as if it was re-etching the markings as I watched. “Adopted?”

“Would you like this sword? Quickly—don’t think; just answer.”

“Yes.” My eyes turned back to the fiery blue-green display.

“Thank the gods. I’ve been looking for a home for her for ages. Poor thing has been in the trunk for a few decades, at least.”

“
I
’m sorry
—did you just say you locked her up? In a chest? She’s
alive,
and you stowed her like some old high school trophy? Shame on you.”

As I spoke, Wembley shifted uncomfortably. “In fairness, I don’t think her sense of time is like ours…?” He shrugged halfheartedly.

…lovely…pretty…kind…

“Um, can she speak English?”

Wembley looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Only if you can.”

I swallowed a grumble. “And her name, Tangwystl, that’s English, Welsh, Scottish?”

“Welsh.”

Finally, a simple, straightforward answer.

“So she’s Welsh?”

“How would I know? She’s not
my
sword.”

I could feel a growl growing in my chest. I had a passing thought as to whether my eyes might possibly be red.

…pretty…blue…pretty…

“Aw. Thanks.” I smiled at Wembley. “She says I have pretty blue eyes.”

“A sword that flatters.” Wembley didn’t seem to know what to say about that. Eventually he sucked air through his teeth, and said, “I can tell you that I suspect she predates her Welsh name. She’s a takouba.”

I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t know what that is.” I traced the scrollwork with the tip of my finger and whispered to Tangwystl, “Sorry.”

She might have purred.

“Right. The takouba is not a Welsh sword. Might look European, but she isn’t. Google it. Maybe Taureg—but I couldn’t say. Each time she’s come to me, she’s been Tangwystl.”

Best name

“You can’t hear her, can you?” When he shook his head, I said, “I think that’s her favorite name. Wait—each time? What does that mean?”

Wembley sighed. “She keeps coming back. As finicky as she is with her partners, you’d think they’d last longer. Although, come to think of it, you might be the first vamp.” Wembley peered at me. “You’re definitely the first vamp. She likes a certain type—and vamps don’t usually fit the bill.”

I fingered the scrollwork again. “And what type is that?”

He considered the question. “Someone with a certain zest for life.”

I pursed my lips. “Zest…is that a nice way to say rambunctious enthusiasm?”

“It’s a compliment. Take it and run.” Wembley packed away the first blade he’d removed, a much larger one than Tangwystl.

“So, let’s assume that her partners aren’t dropping like flies—just living natural human-length lives. Why and how does she get back to you?”

“Magic.” I gave him a peeved look, and he said, “Fine. One time through the post. Actually messenger, because there wasn’t a postal system. And another time she showed up as loot in a raid. Another time she was a gift from a grateful…ah, lady friend. Another time—”

“Whoa. That’s enough; I get the picture.” I couldn’t help picturing Wembley with his lady friend. Thankfully my imagination steered away from nudity—but even so, I quickly shifted focus to the second question. “Any thoughts on why? Why she keeps coming back to you when you’re not the partner she wants? Uh—you’re not, are you?”

“Oh, definitely not. Do I seem full of zest? But you’ll have to ask her why me. We don’t chat.”

“Oh, yeah.” I’d forgotten that he couldn’t hear her. “But if she doesn’t talk to you, how do you know what she wants and who’s a good fit?”

“A feeling. She can communicate, but not with words. And the sparkly lights were hard to miss this time around.” When he saw the look on my face, he grinned. “That’s not typical. But really, enough with the sword already. Let’s have a look at your room.”

“Wait. How am I supposed to use a sword? And how do I carry a sword around in Austin?”

“Enough with the questions. I think I’m getting a migraine—and I don’t get headaches. Look, she’s yours now. So the how is between the two of you.” Wembley locked the trunk. “Ah—I
can
tell you that she can cloak herself. The vixen was cloaked for about three years, and I thought I’d lost her. Probably trying to teach me a lesson, put a bug in my ear to hurry up and find her a new partner. Not like it’s easy to find candidates that fit the— See, there you go.”

The sword in my hand had vanished, but I could still feel the paradoxically airy yet hefty feel of the blade. I gave her an experimental swing, and a small shimmer in the air gave away her location. It looked like the air that rose off Austin asphalt in the dead of summer.

“Wow. So, you’re alive, huh? Are you possessed by the soul of some long-dead and romantically tragic figure?” I could just imagine it…I cocked my head. “Did you hear that, Wembley? I think my sword just blew a raspberry.”

“No surprise there. Possessed by a human…where do you get this stuff? She’s not cursed; she’s alive.”

“Oh, sorry about that.” I petted the scrollwork near the hilt apologetically. “I’m new. To vampires, magic, and everything.”

But Tangwystl was silent.

“She’s a sword of few words. Where am I supposed to keep her?”

“In her scabbard, close. What do I know? I haven’t carried one in years, and never a living sword. You’ll have to figure that part out.”

I had a sneaking suspicion I’d just been had. “Why haven’t you ever carried a living sword?”

“Apart from the fact that I’ve been toting her from house to house for…a long time, they’re not actually that common. And Tangwystl doesn’t like men.”

A small chirping noise came from the vicinity of Tangwystl.

“Did you hear that?” I looked at my new sword.

“Oh yes—even I heard that one.” He paused and looked at Tangwystl. “I didn’t know she could make actual sounds—something beyond mind-speaking. And I apologize. She doesn’t like
working
with men. Won’t adopt one as a partner, so even if I’d been interested, she wasn’t.”

I looked at him. He didn’t seem to be fibbing, but I still smelled a suspicious odor of deceit. But…a magic sword! I wanted to jump up and down and do a little dance. I had a magic sword!

“Better put it up before you have a small stroke.” Wembley handed me the scabbard.

I slid her into the protective casing, expecting some sign of protest. But she gave a happy sigh of pleasure. Actually, it sounded a lot like me when I put my favorite slippers on. I slung the scabbard over my shoulder.

Wembley readjusted the case and flipped it around to my back. “Works better in modern society, and easier for her to cloak because it follows the line and movement of your body. But you’ll have to sort out the details of using a sword in modern society on your own time. I haven’t the stamina for it any longer.”

No aversion to guns, but Wembley did seem completely uninterested in the concept of swordplay. I’d have to quiz him on the hang-up sometime when I wasn’t already stretching hospitality to the limits.

“I do remember that Alex carried his in a similar way. And his is the only magic sword I’ve seen so far. Although I guess I wouldn’t really see them—with cloaking and all that? And I’m pretty sure he didn’t talk to his.” I thought back to the moment I’d seen his sword at the office. Did he always carry it, and it was simply invisible? But I was pretty certain he hadn’t spoken to it.

“He uses a minor illusion to mask his sword—same for any other weaponry he happens to stash on his body. And his is definitely not alive.” Wembley chuckled as if the thought was vastly entertaining. Once he’d recovered from his fit of humor, he said, “I think he has some more complex enchantments working on his blade—but again, ask him.”

Ask someone else. It seemed to be the Society’s motto. And it was vastly annoying. But I wasn’t getting anything else out of Wembley. He was in house-flipper mode now.

I followed behind him as he led the way to a room on the opposite side of the house. “The guest bathroom is in the hallway.” He flicked on the light. “It’s clean—but this one hasn’t been through the remodel yet. The contractors just finished the master bath and haven’t made it to this one.”

It was like a 1970s flashback. Gold, sparkly swirls in the Formica countertops, fixtures straight out of an acid trip, and paneling.

“Paneling in the bathroom?”

“It was a moment in time. But call it beadboard, and suddenly it’s modern.”

“Oh, yeah. But this isn’t that.” I could feel my nose wrinkling up. “Really not. What are you doing with the walls?”

“I’m not sure. The accountant me says paint it white and go for a French country home look—but that may not fit with the rest of the house, depending on which direction we go with the kitchen.”

“Says interior designer you.”

“Bingo.” He flipped the light off. “This way to your bedroom. Breakfast at eight? Or nine? How about you help yourself if I’m not up?”

“Deal. And thanks for everything, Wembley. I’m sure Alex is being overcautious.”

Wembley hesitated and then nodded. “Good night.”

The room was cute and fresh. Light bamboo flooring, off-white walls, and sage window panels. There was a unique built-in dresser that I’d never seen in a ranch-style house of this era. Probably added by one of the former owners, Wembley left it mostly as is, only adding a coat of fresh paint and some new handles. I set Tangwystl gently on top of it.

After a quick bathroom trip to freshen up, I changed into my nightgown and slipped into bed. As the sheets slid softly against my skin, I realized this was the first time I’d gone to bed and fallen asleep in any normal fashion since my transformation. There was something comforting about the nightly ritual of brushing teeth, changing into nightclothes, and going to bed. Even in a strange house and a strange bed.

Whoever came to view the house would see in this room exactly what they needed: a spare room for guests, the new baby’s room, a home office for freelance work—the possibilities were numerous. I saw safety, routine, and normalcy. And those were the thoughts I fell asleep to.