Here Comes the Vampire (7 page)

I forced myself to take a deep breath. Once. Twice. Not that the oxygen packed any
Kapow!
for my vamp brain cells, but I’d been blending too many years to count and so I went for the number one human anti-anxiety technique.

When that didn’t work, I powered up my computer, pulled up Nordstroms.com and went for the vamp equivalent—shopping.

I added a pair of Derek Lam strappy satin stilettos to my shopping cart, fought down a rush of
Wait! That’s my rent for the next two months!
and clicked the C clileAUTO BUY button.

Giddiness flooded me and I quickly reached for the bottle of AB- in my bottom drawer to keep the momentum going. I poured a glass and popped it into the small microwave sitting on a nearby shelf. I’d just guzzled half the glass and was feeling fairly calm when Evie walked in, a tissue in one hand and a stack of files in the other.

I froze like a deer caught in a pair of gonzo headlights. This was it. My cover was blown. Evie would freak and run screaming from the building. Then it would be angry mobs and torches and DED would be toast. I’d be forced to move back home with my parents. They’d say
I told you so
and hand me my very own Moe’s name tag. I’d have a major nervous breakdown and wind up in that special vacation spot my Aunt Gwen had gone to about eighty years ago, never to be heard from again.

I know, I know. Queen of the Damned wasn’t the only invite to my Lack of Sleep Party. Drama Queen Extraordinaire was obviously number two on the guest list.

“Tomato juice,” Evie declared. “You must have read my mind.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need juice. For my cold.”

“You need orange juice, as in Vitamin C.”

“But I don’t have any and the store on the corner is out. This’ll be better than nothing right now. Besides it has antioxidants.”

“But you can’t.” I held the bottle out of her reach. “I mean, you might be allergic to tomatoes.”

“I’m not allergic to tomatoes.”

“What about the pesticides used to fertilize the tomatoes?”

“No.”

“The glass it’s bottled in?”

“Just hand it over.”

Before her fingers could close around the neck, I turned away and pretended to stumble forward. The bottle fell to the floor with a
thunk
and my imported stash spilled all over the hardwood. “Uh, oh. Clumsy me.” I snatched up the bottle—thankful that it hadn’t broken--and tossed it in the nearby trash.

“I’ll get some papertowels—“

But before she could finish her sentence, I’d snatched a stack of napkins from a nearby sideboard and was busily mopping up the mess. Swipe, swirl, scrub,
done
. “There.” I plopped the mess in the trash. “So what’s up?” I walked over to my desk and ignored the strange look that Evie gave me.

Undoubtedly, her head was spinning from my fast reflexes. Go Super Vamp!

I gave her a pointed look that said
What?
and she seemed to shake away her suspicions.

“Look, I know you don’t want to deal with all of this right now, but I’ve had an entire bottle of Nyquil and I’m practically worthless. These are the latest profiles that we still haven’t managed to hook up,” she told me as she handed over the manila folders. “The first three are the English teachers from the local middle school that you met with last month—
achewwww
!” She wiped at her red nose. “The ones doing the Datetribe thing to encourage each other to get out more. I’ve been scanning our database, but I can’t find any decent matches.” Another sneeze punctuated the statement. “Then we’ve got Paul the Plumber. He’s from Brooklyn and determined to meet a girl who doesn’t have an accent. He says if they tie the knot, she’ll be manning the phones at his office so she needs to speak clearly.”

“Any look requirements?”

“No facial hair.”
Achewwww!

“That rules out the English teachers. Any appointments other than Mr. Fairweather?”

“Only one. Her name is Erica Godfrey. She’s a forty-three year old financial analyst. Only child. Father’s a lawyer. Good income. Decent looks. She says she’s up for a promotion and her boss likes happily married couples so she ne ClesFathereds a husband by the end of this week.” She paused to blow her nose. “She wants to show him off at next week’s corporate banquet. She signed up for our ultra deluxe package, but made it clear that she isn’t paying a dime if we can’t produce results in seven days. She said she already signed up with five other dating services to up her odds. She’s offering a fifty thousand dollar bonus to the one that hooks her up first.”

“Fifty thousand on top of the ultra deluxe package fee?” My pulse started to pound. A reaction that had nothing to do with the sharp, rich fragrance of Evie’s blood and everything to do with the enticing scent of
eau de cash.

“
If
we hook her up before anyone else.” Another sneeze. Then a sniffle. “If we don’t, we get nothing.”

My brain skidded to halt after the word
else
and I smiled—really smiled--for the first time that morning. While I do my damndest to defy the stereotype of snotty, pretentious, materialist born
vampere
, there was no fighting DNA or the fact that I’d lost my entire wardrobe not long ago to a slobbering, puking demon (think Evie possessed by the spirit of a vicious serial killer). While I’d purchased the essentials, I’d yet to build my stash back up to its initial glory.

50K would buy a helluva lot of stuff, lemme tell ya.

I took one look at my assistant, from her watery eyes to her pale cheeks. “You should go home.”

“But I’ve got messages. Your mother called.” She handed over the slips of paper. “Six times. Call number one wanted to know what kind of band you want for the reception. Call number two said never mind that she would pick the band because she has better taste. Call three wanted to know if you want silver or gold imprinting on the napkins. Call four said never mind that she’s going with gold because she doesn’t want anyone to think that she and your father are trying to be chintzy—
achewww!
Call five wanted to know if you want a sit-down dinner or an all-you-can-eat buffet. Call six said—“

“Let me guess. Never mind she’s going for the buffet because she doesn’t want anyone to think that she and my father are cheap.”

“Actually she said you’d better call her as soon as possible because she’s this close to stabbing the penny-pinching bastard.” I arched an eyebrow and she added, “She wants the buffet, but he thinks it’ll cost too much money on account of your aunts are, quote, greedy bitches, end quote. He said they’re liable to bankrupt him because they don’t know how to control themselves and he’s refusing to pay unless your mother opts for a limited sit-down menu or crosses them off the guest list.” She gave me a watery smile. “And that’s it.”

I eyeballed the letter opener sitting on the corner of my desk. I didn’t think of myself as an emo, but a jab in the heart sounded pretty good right about now.

“Get out of here and get some rest.”

“I can stay and at least man the phones while you meet with Mr. Fairweather.”

“I can handle it. Go home.”

“Seriously?”

“Go.”

“I swear I’ll help with the Remy situation as soon as my temp drops below one hundred.” She smiled, crossed her heart and walked out, taking the delicious scent of ripe blood with her.

Thankfully.

I took the stack of messages and dumped them in my top drawer. I had enough drama at the moment. Besides, no sense getting worked up over a reception that was never going to happen. I would comb through every second of footage until I found the proof I needed. Vegas would be null and void and Remy and I would go our separate ways.

Hey, it could happen.

In the meantime, it was all about not losing hope. Persistence. That’s what I needed Cwhath="4. That and a LOT of blood. I reached for the other half of the glass I’d been drinking when I’d “accidentally” dropped the bottle.

I sat there for a few seconds, letting the warmth spread through me. But without a decent night’s sleep, one glass wasn’t enough. Even more, I’d sort of gotten used to the fresh stuff now that Ty and I were together. He fed from me and I fed from him and it was
soooo
much better than even the most expensive import. I had the fleeting image of Remy and his smooth, tanned throat. My stomach clenched. I retrieved another bottle—my last since the other one was now in the trash—from my bottom drawer, popped the cork and took a huge swig.

I’d chugged over half when the door op
ened and my first appointment walked in a full hour before his scheduled time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“And make sure she’s not incontinent,” said the old man sitting across the desk from me. “I spend half my Social Security check on Depends as it is.” He had a head full of snow white hair, lots of wrinkles and a grimace that said he either a) didn’t want to be here, b) had missed his morning fiber or c) both.

I was gunning for c.

“Ix-nay on the bad pipes.” I jotted down the last requirement and scanned the profile. “Okay, so let me get this straight, you want a woman with crackerjack plumbing, a head full of hair, her own teeth, no cataracts and no bunions.”

“And no hemorrhoids. Have you seen how much they charge for Preparation H?” The grimace turned into a full blown frown. “I’m living on a fixed income. I ain’t gonna give up one more red cent on account of some woman.”

Especially since she isn’t my dear, sweet, Adelia.

The thought glimmered in his pale green eyes and my heart hitched.

Oscar Fairweather had been widowed all of three months, after sixty-nine years of marriage, five kids and eight grandkids. He lived in Brooklyn in the same brownstone he and his dearly departed wife had bought nearly fifty-two years ago. He sat in the same brown recliner every evening and watched the same console TV every night. The kids visited but not very often since two of them lived in Chicago, one in California, another in Florida and the youngest in Texas.

Not that he was lonely.

H
-to-the-
E
-to-the-double-
L
,
no
. He liked his peace and quiet. He just didn’t like it all that much without his wife. She’d been his friend and the best damned cook in the city. Her beef stew had been legendary, and what she’d done with a Shepherd’s pie... Holy-friggin’-Toledo. His mouth watered just thinking about it. Nobody could layer mashed potatoes and beef like his dear, sweet Adelia.

She was the reason he was here. The only reason.

“Here you go.” He pulled a check out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. “It’s for the
Cheapskates Need Love, Too
package. Minus twenty-five percent for my senior discount.”

A rush of excitement went through me, effectively distracting me from the DVDs stashed in my purse and the all-important fact that my afterlife was spiraling down ye old toilet at an alarming rate. Granted, we’re not talking a huge commission--I don’t call it the
Cheapskate
package for nothing--but I’d just spent a fortune on-line. I needed all the help I could get.

My euphoria lasted maybe five seconds, until I noted the sad twist to Oscar’s lips. Poor thing. He missed his wife’s cooking. Even more, he missed his wife. And the way she’d smiled at him every morning over coffee. And how she’d always smelled like vanilla extract.

“Are you sure you want Fw/>N shto do this, Mr. Fairweather? I mean, it’s only been a few months since your wife died.” What? We’re talking vanilla extract. Not too many could pull off a scent like that. I knew I’d have a bitch of a time trying to replace a woman like Adelia. “Maybe you should give yourself a little time before you jump back in the dating pool.”

He shook his head. “I promised my Dee I’d find someone to look after me and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” A smile touched his face. “She’d have a fit if she could see me now. She liked me with some meat on my bones. That’s why I need to find somebody. Preferably somebody who knows how to cook. I’ve lost over twelve pounds in the past three months what with eating nothing but those dad-blasted Spaghetti Os. And Pork-n-Beans. And Campbell’s soup. Dee hated the canned stuff. Said it was cheating. She always made every meal from scratch. Baked her own bread, too. Right up until that blasted cancer put her in the hospital this last time...” He faded into his own thoughts for a few seconds and a lump pushed its way into my throat.

“You really should give yourself some time.”

“Time is one thing I ain’t got, girlie. I’m eighty-six years old and practically wasting away as we speak.” His determined gaze collided with mine. “You gonna help me or not?”

No
was on the tip of my tongue, but then I saw the desperation that seeped into his expression. He’d kept every promise he’d ever made to his wife, from hauling out the trash every Thursday to ditching his nightly cigars. He had no intention of breaking his word now. He was doing this. If he had to take out an ad in one of the local papers or cruise singles bars or spend every Sunday at church. He’d never been much of a religious man—especially during football season—but a man had to do what a man had to do. And if that meant giving up the Giants, well, it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. At least until play-offs.

“You can always DVR.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Giants,” I blurted, breaking the first Vamp Commandment—Thou Shalt Keep a Low Profile. What can I say? I’m a sucker for sad and pathetic. “You could get DVR or even Tivo, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about missing a game if you spend a Sunday at St. Marys.”

His bushy white brows drew together. “How do you know I go to St. Mary’s?”

My brain raced, quickly filling in the blanks. “You, um, mentioned it when we were filling out the personal information on your profile. Name, address, social security number, religious preference.”

“I said I didn’t have a religious preference.”

“Exactly. Which means you probably don’t go to church at all. Which means you probably watch football for lack of anything else to do on a Sunday. But then church is a great place to meet women, so it’s probably crossed your mind to trade in the football and head over to St. Marys because that, according to your address, is the closest church to you.” Or so I hoped.