Lifestyles of the Rich and Undead (3 page)

Michel looked uncomfortable now, darting glances between Trudy and the film team, his gaze finally falling on Manuela. “Oh, that. He likes . . . uh . . . brunettes. Spanish-looking brunettes with lots of curves and really big breasts. And asses. He’s an ass-man through and through. One of the most notorious ass-men in the region, as a matter of fact. He’s known far and wide for his predilection for great big round—”

“Ass-man?”

The word was roared out across the grounds. Trudy jumped at the noise, spinning around to catch sight of the blurred figure of a furious Grayson as he leaped toward the ghost, disregarding the fact that the sun was warming the front of the house.

“Gray!” Michel squawked and bolted to the left, his words trailing behind him. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“I only just returned. Dammit, Nosty, I told you before that I’d gut you if I caught you gossiping with anyone about me, and by God, so I will!”

Trudy turned and smiled at the camera as the two men disappeared into the shrubbery. “And there you have it, my dears—the dashing and oh-so-manly Grayson Soucek—”

“Gray, I swear to all the saints in heaven that I didn’t say a single word about you,” Michel yelled as he ran back between Trudy and the camera, the vampire hot on his heels.

“Like hell you didn’t! Ass-man, Nosty?
Ass-man?
”

Ernst watched with interest as the two men went out of sight around the far corner of the house.

“—tormented Dark One,” Trudy continued, just as if nothing untoward had happened. “Alone in despair, needing only the touch of the one woman who can relieve him of his hellish nightmare of an existence—”

“Don’t do anything you’re going to regret later, Gray!” Michel called as he dashed around the house and back toward Trudy, stopping before the camera to pant for a second. “I’m available as well, in case any of your female audience might wish to visit me. I’m happy to—oh, hell!”

The ghost took off again at a dead run when Gray appeared around the corner of the house, a large scythe in his hand, his face and hands red from the exposure to the sun. But it was the murderous look in his eyes that obviously warned the ghost that he’d pushed the master of the house too far. “You’re going to die, Nosty! This time I mean it!”

“I’m already dead,” came the faint voice from the shrubs.

“Again! You’ll die again! And I’ll make it very, very painful!”

“What lucky woman will have all this to share with a sinfully sexy vampire?” Trudy asked, holding on to her temper as she gestured toward the house, ignoring Gray as he stalked past without a glance at either the camera or her. “Who among you has that spark, that special something that will attract and keep the handsome lord of the manor worshipping at her feet? And how will she cope with the many demands of being not only mistress to such a large mansion, but also the sole source of nourishment to a demanding and—yes, let’s just say it—virile vampire? Do you have what it takes to be everything to such a sensitive, caring man?”

“I swear it was all just a joke,” Michel yelled as he ran toward Trudy yet again. “I didn’t mean ass-man in a bad way. I just meant you liked them. Everyone does. I do. You do. Even Johannes—”

Somehow, he’d managed to lose his jerkin and tunic, leaving his upper torso bare. He paused again for the camera, flashing it a smile and flexing the muscles of one arm until Gray bellowed, “You dare mention Johannes? Decapitation is too good for you! It’s drawing and quartering time, Nosty! I’m going to heat up the lead right now! Prepare to suffer like you’ve never suffered before!”

“He’s such a joker. Doesn’t mean of a word of it, really. We’re actually the very best of friends,” Michel confided to the camera before he took off in a lope in the opposite direction from which he’d just come.

Trudy took a deep breath, and with an effort that was almost superhuman, clung to her smile. “Join us next month, when we feature a very attractive poltergeist named Adam. Until then, good-bye from me, and may all your dreams of the rich and undead come true!”

Click throughfor an exclusive sneak peekat the sizzling vampire romance anthology

THE UNDEAD IN MY BED

with stories by bestselling author Katie MacAlister, Molly Harper, and Jessica Sims

Available from Pocket Books October 2012

SHADES OF GRAY

BY KATIE M
AC
ALISTER

“That woman is hopelessly inept at trespassing.”

The female form clinging to the top of the stone wall attached on either side of the massive wrought-iron walls weaved perilously.

“If she’s not careful,” I told the cat standing next to me, watching as the female peered down at the shrubs beneath her, “she’s going to fall right into that patch of . . . there, you see?”

The trespasser, I was mildly interested to note, wasn’t the angular blonde who’d attacked me the day before. This woman was smaller and rounder, pleasantly plump, with a mass of dark red curls pulled back from her face. A few curls had escaped in her efforts to scale the wall, and I wondered if she knew that a clump of leaves was listing to the side, tangled in the depths of her hair.

She must have realized that she had landed in a patch of poison oak, because after a few seconds of muttering to herself, she leaped up shrieking and drew a few quick symbols in the air.

“Did she just ward herself?” I asked the cat.

He sneered.

“That’s what I thought.” I frowned at the woman as she gathered up the things that had fallen out of her handbag. As she turned, I got a better look at her face. A jolt of electricity tingled up my spine when I realized that she was the nun I’d seen the night before. “What sort of a holy woman knows about wards?”

Johannes did not answer, not that he could—a small blessing for which I’d been thankful over the course of the last three centuries.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said with grim determination as I strode after the woman when she hurried past me on the pitted gravel drive. “Whatever it is the little nun is doing here, it’s going to stop right now.”

She didn’t hear me until I was about to grab her, and then she barely had time to gasp as she whirled around. I slapped one hand over her mouth, the other on her neck.

Wide gray eyes considered me for three seconds before the lids fluttered closed as she toppled forward. I released my hold on her neck, catching her and swinging her up into my arms. “Now we’ll get some answers,” I told the unconscious woman as I carried her into the lodge.

She felt warm and soft in my arms, the faint scent of lilacs teasing my nose. I sternly told my libido to stop noticing just how nice a scent that was or that her face was lightly freckled, her skin as smooth as satin, all of which left me with the desire to stroke her soft curves. Her mouth looked as soft as the rest of her, a delicate rose in color, as if she’d been eating strawberries. A sudden rush of blood to my groin had me reminding myself that lusting after a nun was not appropriate, especially one who disregarded newly installed chains and locks and innumerable “No Trespassing” signs scattered around the estate. Still, it took some effort to force my gaze away from the temptation of her sweetly curved lips.

It took ten minutes to round up some twine from the remains of a broken packing box, but after a few minutes, I stepped back and admired my handiwork. The woman was slumped in a chair, her hands bound behind her, a gag around her neck waiting to be pulled forward and put into place in case she started screaming.

Johannes sniffed at her feet and turned away, apparently bored. I wasn’t fooled in the least. He always took profound interest in any female.

“Hrn?” The little nun snorted and blinked, squinting at me as I stood before her, my arms crossed. “Fleg?”

“Do you speak English?” I asked, switching to French. “French? German?”

“I’m English,” she answered, blinking rapidly as she obviously tried to bring me into focus. “Who are you? Did you . . . ugh, my head . . . knock me out?”

“I applied pressure to your neck, causing you to black out,” I said sternly, trying hard not to notice how her breasts swelled when she struggled to bring her arms forward.

“You Vulcan neck-pinched me? Why am I tied up? And did you know you’re a Dark One?”

I frowned. “What does a nun know of either Vulcan neck pinches or Dark Ones?”

She stopped trying to free her hands. “I’m not a nun, I’m a Guardian. And a Beloved, so I know a Dark One when I see him. Or her. But mostly you’re hims, not hers, aren’t you? Do you have any pain tablets? I had a repulsively annoying headache before you Vulcanized me, and now it’s just that much worse.”

“No,” I answered, increasing the intensity of my frown. The little nun didn’t seem to be the least bit intimidated to find herself bound and held prisoner.

“No you don’t know you’re a Dark One, no you’re not mostly males, or no you don’t have any pain meds?” Her eyes shimmered with gentle curiosity.

“Of course I know I’m a Dark One,” I snapped, annoyed and at the same time strangely pleased that she wasn’t afraid of me. “I’ve been one almost my entire life. You are
not
a Beloved, however.”

“I am,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Hullo. Is that your cat?”

“No. Don’t talk to him.” I scented the air. The lodge, like the Abbey itself, was a damp, mildewed, crumbling relic of grander times. The air was redolent with the smell of molds, wetness, and the leavings of various small animals that had claimed the lodge for their own. Tattered bits of wallpaper moved gently in a draft from a broken window, the walls streaked with equal amounts of grime and quiet despair.

And yet, despite the odors of the decaying building, the scent of sun-warmed lilacs lingered, stirring something deep in my belly.

“If you were a Beloved, I would know,” I told her.

“Is something wrong with his mouth?” she asked, making little chirruping noises at Johannes until—as I knew he would—the massive cat leaped onto her knees and purred at her, his eyes half-closed.

“Yes. You are
not
a Beloved.”

“I thought so, because most cats don’t have one lip pulled up so a fang shows all the time. Was he hurt or something?”

“No, it is simply how he is,” I answered, wanting to simultaneously shake her and kiss her.

Her gaze assessed me. “He’s not your cat, but you know he wasn’t hurt?”

“No, he is not my cat. He simply lives with me and accompanies me wherever I go. That is all. Why is a Guardian pretending to be a Beloved and a nun?”

“Why is a Dark One abducting innocent people?” she countered.

I leaned over her in an attempt to intimidate. “Why did you climb over the fence when the signs clearly state that your presence is not welcome?”

She blinked those lovely soft gray eyes at me. “You’re the one who put up the signs? Did you also chain the gate closed? We thought it might be the local authorities, although Teresa did show the police the documents the estate agent sent her, but you know how it is with Czech officials—they do love their paperwork—and Teresa figured she must have missed dotting an i or crossing a t.”

“I am Czech,” I said with much dignity.

“Really?” She tipped her head to consider me, not in the least bit intimidated by me, dammit. “You don’t sound Czech. You sound British, like me. Who are you, exactly?”

“My name is Gray. Grayson Soucek, if you were going to ask, and I suspect you were since you seem to ask everything else that occurs to you.”

She giggled, and the sound went straight to my groin. I ignored the tightening sensation, grimly reminding myself that not only was she trouble, but even assuming she wasn’t really a nun, she was a housebreaker or, at best, a squatter, neither of which I intended on tolerating.

“Hi, Gray, I’m Noelle. I’ve always been naturally curious, and I found out a long time ago that if you don’t ask questions, you won’t learn the answers. I like your name, and it does sound Czech, but what are you doing here? And why have you abducted me? Why do you have a cat who isn’t your cat? And why don’t you think I’m a Beloved?”

You don’t smell like one.

UNDEAD SUBLET

BY MOLLY HARPER

There it was again!

The soft thump down the hall had me sitting up in bed, blinking into the black quiet of my room. My sleep-blurred brain tumbled to George, his stories about poor, lovelorn Mr. Lassiter and the possibility that said deceased bachelor could be wandering around my house in spectral form.

This was what I got for going to bed so early. My internal clock was all wonky. Thoroughly chastised and toting Tupperware and a bowling ball–sized chunk of monkey bread, I’d found myself back in my house with nothing to do. No dishes to prep. Nothing to chop or sauté. No pans to wash. No knives to sharpen. The highlight of the evening was falling flat on my face as soon as I walked into the living room. The coffee table seemed . . . off. I remembered it being a little farther away from the couch. Then again, I was still adjusting to, well, everything, so who was I to think I’d already mentally mapped the living room?