The Vampire's Protector (4 page)

“You and me both.” She echoed his shudder.

“But I've always thought vampires—” He glanced skyward where the sun beamed brightly. “Aren't you supposed to lurk in the shadows?”

“We vamps can do sunlight for a bit. But we still keep our heads down. But, as it probably was in your time, most humans are not aware of us.”

“So you are still not a large part of the population?”

“Large enough. But smart enough to walk in the shadows.”

“Yes, shadow creatures. So you are vampire.” So opposite of what he'd expected. Completely un-creature-like, this woman of the enticing blond hair and blue eyes. Save for those vicious fangs. Best not to rile the creature. He could play nice to protect his ass if need be. “I don't think you should bite me. My blood may be...off.”

“Off?”

“I did just rise from the grave.”

“Right. Don't worry, buddy. I'm not going to sink in my fangs. You're a job.”

“A job—”

“So tell me how you're feeling after a climb out of the grave? I should probably keep an eye on you. For, uh...possible decomposition.”

“Decomposition?”

“Well, yeah.” She gestured her hands through the air in exclamation and blurted out, “You could be a zombie.”

“A—what? I am not familiar with that term, vampire. What year is it, by the by?”

“2016. So you could be a zombie.” She pressed the tiny box a few times, then held it before him to display yet another painting. “Because zombies are dead things that have risen from the grave.”

The image was of a person. Maybe. Whatever it had been, it was decayed and—flesh was falling off its face and it oozed gore.

Nicolo flinched and made a disgusted face. “That is not me.”

“Probably not. Zombies are usually mindless and gross. They have limbs falling off and look like they just rose from the grave. They also eat brains. You're...hot. So not zombie-like.”

Again she did something with the tiny device, then turned it toward him. “Here's the mirror app. Take a look.”

He bent to study the reflection in the silvered surface of the device. Indeed, it had changed from showing a painting to a mirror. Marvelous. And diabolical. And yet...

“That is...me? I look...well.” He tapped his teeth again. They were white and not wobbling in their sockets. “Such a marvel.” His nose, long and with a bend at the middle looked like the same nose. His eyes were gray and clear. His hair seemed longer. As did his face look—well, healthier. Such a handsome fellow, eh?

Realizing he was mooning over himself, Nicolo cleared his throat and stood upright. “Did you say it was you who facilitated my rising from the grave?”

“Inadvertently.”

He quirked a brow.

“When I was inspecting my find, the bow slipped across the violin strings. Played a few notes. But I didn't do it on purpose. It was accidental.”

“You have the black violin?” Nicolo's heart thumped once, and he winced at the aching remembrance of that vile instrument.

“I do.”

Blowing out a heavy breath, he clutched his hair in frustration. “I asked Achille to destroy that monstrosity! Oh, this is most awful.” He started to stride away, then turned and paced the pavement back up to her. “Do you know what this means?” He slapped a hand over his chest. “That explains why I feel so alive and strong. I feel as though I could run round the world and not pause to catch my breath. And my teeth.” He tapped the perfect teeth in his mouth.

“Oh wow.” She peered at his teeth. “I read you had lost all your teeth before your death.”

“I did lose them! As well as my voice. I could not speak above a whisper for years before my death. And now it is as if I have transformed into a new version of myself when I climbed up out of that coffin. And you are the reason for it!”

He clutched her about the neck and squeezed. She struggled and then kicked and landed her foot successfully at his hip, just missing his groin. Nicolo dropped the vampire and with a shout, stumbled backward into a swath of lush tall grass.

“We women have learned a thing or two about defense since your time,” she said, standing over him. “Let that be a warning. You're strong, though.” She rubbed her reddened throat. “Kind of weird for a dead guy.”

“I am not dead,” he managed as he fought to free himself from the long grasses tangled about his shoes.

“No, you're not. But what are you?”

That was the question, indeed. By all the blessed mercies he prayed that foul brimstone bargain had not been enacted.

“Why did you play the violin?” he asked the vampiress. He had best be cautious for another attack. The next time she could use her fangs.

“I didn't play it,” she said. “I was supposed to find the violin and bring it to Acquisitions, but I figured I'd better open up the case and check to be sure it was inside first. When I did, it was almost as if the violin had a mind of its own. I'm sure it played those notes by itself.”

That did not surprise him. What he knew of the violin was that it was magic most foul. Diabolical, even.

Truly, had she summoned him by enacting that bedamned brimstone bargain? It didn't seem possible. The condition had been that
he
should be the one to play the violin. Only then would he be granted immortality and immeasurable supernatural power.

Did he have immortality now? He certainly felt...something. Stronger, and more powerful. Sure. Yet if not immortal, what, indeed, had he become? And how to fix it?

Did he want to fix it? That may imply his going back to the grave, of dying. Again. He rather liked the air today and the soft, sweet grass beneath his shoes. The sky appeared so clear and bluer than ever he could remember. When had he last admired the sky and simply inhaled the crisp summer air?

No matter, he must not rile this woman overmuch in case she might bite and kill him. Perhaps he could play along with her suggestion to keeping an eye on him. Yes, must needs.

A zombie? If he started to decay he would immediately request a second death, because if he turned into something like that thing displayed on her little box then—absolutely not.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“The black violin? It's uh...” Her eyes wandered along the side of the fancy silver carriage, then snapped back toward him, though she didn't meet his gaze directly. “...on its way to the Archives for storage.”

“I don't understand that.” She was lying to him. Moments earlier she had said she had it. “You played it not too long ago. I
felt
the music. It moved through my veins. And it called out to me.”

“Really?” She stepped before him, admiration sparkling in her pale blue eyes. He recognized that look. So many had looked upon him as a literal idol when he'd been at his prime performing on the stage. “You're really him.
The
Paganini.”

“Indeed.” He set back his shoulders and puffed up his chest. Felt good to step back into the acknowledgment of his talents. He was a maestro, and he would resume that status. Because he knew nothing else.

“What is your name, vampire?”

“Summer Santiago.” She offered her hand, and he assumed she wanted him to shake it.

He gripped it and her skin felt warm. Amazing to feel another being's warmth and life, to be reassured that he, as well, possessed life. Then a flash burst in his brain, and he received a series of images as if a manic dream chased his reality. The vampire was twenty-eight, had always been a vampire, had a vampire brother named Johnny, and vampire parents. Her job title was a Retriever, and that had something to do with finding lost items or magical objects. An image of her lying beneath a steel carriage such as the one they stood before confused him. She wasn't hurt. It was a place where she enjoyed being, or rather, working.

Summer pulled her hand from his, and the images flickered out like an extinguished candle. Nicolo chugged out a gasp as the blue sky and sweet grass resumed his senses. “What was that?”

“That was a handshake. I'm pretty sure they did it back in your time. Nineteenth century, right?”

“No, those images. I saw...” He tapped his forehead. “You have a brother who is a vampire, and he sings on the stage alongside his wife. Why does she have horns?”

“How do you know that?”

“It came to me when I held your hand. Is the woman demon?”

“No, Kambriel is vampire, but she wears horns as part of her stage costume. So holding my hand gave you images of my life? That's some kind of cool power.”

“I don't know. It wasn't cold. Your reference to things being hot and cold makes little sense to me.”

“Oh, buddy, it's slang, and you have so much to learn. But of course I don't think you'll have much time to gain all that knowledge.”

“Why?”

“You shouldn't exist.”

“Is that so? Why? Do you believe I am some unholy beast resurrected from death?”

“Well...are you?”

He hadn't an answer to that one. And if he thought about it too much, he wouldn't like the truth. She wanted to put him back in the grave? Never. He was alive, and nothing would change that. And he was strong enough to get one little vampiress off his back.

He shoved her shoulder hard and watched as her body soared through the air a good thirty feet and she landed on the side of the road, tumbling into the grassy ditch.

Nicolo winced. That had to hurt. But he had to protect himself if he wanted to survive this new world.

“So long, vampire Summer. I am off to live my new life.”

Chapter 4

S
ummer gave the guy a head start. The next town was only a couple kilometers away, and she was in no hurry to slide behind the wheel again for the long drive home. She'd have to take him with her. Couldn't let some dead guy wander around unsupervised. Especially if he had anything to do with the possibility of Bad Things Happening.

Or even, Bad Things that Had Already Happened.

She sat on the hood of the Audi and slipped on her Ray-Bans. Sunlight beamed over a distant swash of chestnut trees, glittering in white over the leaf canopy. Crickets chirped in the grasses edging the road, and somewhere a cow mooed.

It wasn't often she heard a cow moo in Paris. She loved these quiet moments out of the city. It served a different sort of adventure. A mental escape. Much as she sought the fast paced, the always moving, the rush and thrill of her job, times like this centered her. Gave her a few moments to appreciate nature. She wasn't a tree-hugging hippy chick, just a soul who understood she was a part of everything on this planet, as it was a part of her.

So what part of it all had Nicolo Paganini become? He was the furthest thing from a zombie. No body parts falling off. No nasty skin peels or lumbering gait. Hell, the man was good-looking, and she'd noticed the hard muscles beneath the white dress shirt. For some reason he looked fit, beyond what any picture had depicted of his sometimes comically distorted figure in the nineteenth century. According to the history books he'd been tall, gangly and often sickly.

Was it possible he'd been forged differently when rising from the grave? Certainly he must have decayed lying in situ for a hundred and seventy-five years. So he had been renewed. To a marvelous degree. All parts of him were nicely proportioned and muscled. Every bit of him well made.

“But let's hope he's not the Beneath-breaking-loose part of the director's suspicions.”

The musician had seemed innocuous enough. No flashing magic or vicious powers. Though when he'd shoved her away from him, she'd been startled at the force that had landed her far from where she had stood. He had never been that strong in his previous life. No mortal man was, for that matter.

“He is different,” she decided. And that part worried her.

Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed Acquisitions, and the director took her call. “You check out the cemetery?” Ethan Pierce asked.

“I uh, didn't get that far.”

“I don't understand. That was part of the mission, Santiago.”

“I found Paganini. Alive. Wandering the roadside.”

The director's exhale spoke so much more than a curse or a few curt, remanding words.

“I can hardly lure him back to the grave,” she provided. “Unless you need me to do that?” She winced, hoping the answer would not be an affirmative.

“He's alive. A man from the nineteenth century crawled out of his grave and is now walking the streets of Parma?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not sure what the protocol is for this. I'll have to look into it. Does he seem violent, a danger to others?”

“No. Just startled to be in a different time period. It's like he's a time traveler flashed forward to the future.”

“Yes, sure. Is he exhibiting any zombie-like tendencies?”

Summer smirked, then winced as she closed her eyes behind the sunglasses. “Define zombie-like.”

“Limbs bluing. Necrosis of the tissue. Parts falling off.”

“Nope. He's good.”

For now. But she intended to keep a close eye on him for changes. She'd never had to deal with a zombie before, and she did not look forward to starting.

“Keep an eye on him,” the director said. “Do not let him out of your sight. I'll report back with further instructions.” He clicked off and Summer shoved the phone into her back pocket.

“Keep an eye on him. Sure. No problem.” Not as if she could look away from all that musician numminess, was there?

Twisting at the waist, she could no longer see Paganini's figure walking along the roadside. He'd put some distance between them. But she'd find him. Shouldn't be that hard to track a nineteenth-century musician who had just clambered out of his coffin. Had she just thought of him as nummy?

“You need to get laid, Santiago, if the dead guys are starting to look good to you.”

When had she last—? She didn't even want to think about it.

Paganini had said his blood might be off. Meaning, he probably didn't know what the heck he was. Either that, or he had been freaked she was a vampire.

Then again, no one ever really wanted to get bitten by a vampire. At least, no one smart.

Thinking of which... Exhaustion clung to her limbs. She needed to drink blood for a burst of renewal until she could steal a few winks for a true refresher.

She hopped off the hood and slid in behind the steering wheel. She suspected Paganini wouldn't go far because he had to be hungry, too. She had time to find a meal before pursuing the former dead guy.

* * *

The tavern was a welcome respite from the sun's sweltering heat that had worked up his perspiration during the walk along the black road. Nicolo had removed his coat and folded it over an arm while walking, and now he felt as if he'd walked into a different atmosphere. It was as if a thousand fans blew cool air on him, yet he couldn't feel the wind of said fans. So refreshing!

No one sat by the long stretch of bar, and the barkeep nodded to him before asking what he wanted.

“Beer?” Nicolo tried. He wasn't sure what the modern taverns served, but beer had been around for ages. “Have you food, as well?”

“Special is fish-and-chips. Our cook is Irish.” He shrugged and set a glass mug of beer on the bar before Nicolo. “You want that?”

Nicolo nodded. “Yes, please.”

Fish sounded great. But he had no idea what chips were. He would be surprised. The lure of the golden liquid in the glass coaxed him quickly forward. He slid onto a bar stool and tilted back the liquid. Yes, beer. And quite tasty. He downed half in a long swallow.

Looking about, he marveled at the clutter of paintings on the walls. Yet, they weren't exactly paintings. Done in blacks, grays and whites, they were each framed and depicted people smiling and holding beer mugs. Had they all been composed and painted in this very tavern? Interesting. In the window a sign that said Pull Tabs flashed red light. How was that possible to produce light of such a color with no flames in sight? And overhead, light beamed down from small glass globes. Not in candle form.

“Remarkable.”

He finished the beer and asked for another. “Tell me about that device,” he said to the barkeep and pointed to the framed rectangle above the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. On it images moved, as if he were witnessing a scene in real life. Men kicked a small white ball across a green field. They wore similar clothing. It must be some sort of sport.

“The TV?” the barkeep asked. “Where are you from anyway?”

Nicolo shrugged. “I've...been away from things for a while.”

“One of those hippies who lives in a mountain for ten years?”

He wasn't sure what a hippie was or why a person would want to live in a mountain, but Nicolo again shrugged and nodded. “Sure.”

“You look it. But the women love the long, messy hair nowadays, eh? That's the rugby competition. England versus Ireland. The Wolfhounds are givin' 'em hell. In case you haven't seen a television for a while, it's a big screen, digital, HD, all the bells and whistles. I can get a hundred and eighty channels. Pretty fancy, eh?”

Nicolo had no clue what the man had just said, so he instead sipped the beer and nodded subtly. The bells-and-whistles device was like a larger version of the mysterious box Summer kept on her. Must be some sort of knowledge receptacle. Most likely of the devil.

Yet he could not bemoan this incredible chilled atmosphere. He glanced about, tracking the ceiling and noting the barkeep's odd look. Nicolo shrugged, “Your establishment fascinates me.”

“Sure.” Jabbing a tiny wooden stick into the corner of his mouth, the barkeep reached through an opening in the wall and yelled thanks to an unseen person.

A plate of hot food was set before him, and Nicolo leaned over to inhale the delicious aroma. Yet, hadn't he ordered fish? Whatever it was on the plate, a long strip of something pale brown, did not resemble fish. And he assumed the thin strips of similar color were the chips? He didn't want to be rude and ask, so he picked up a chip and tasted it.

A salty crunch ignited Nicolo's taste buds, and he quickly finished the first. And the second, and another.

“Amazing,” he murmured and finished them all before even trying what would prove to indeed be fish.

“Pace yourself, buddy,” the barkeep said. “We've more if you're that hungry.”

“Thank you. I find it delicious, and yet strange at the same time. May I ask you how a man might find his way to Paris from here?”

He needed to find that violin that Summer had said she'd sent on to Paris.

“You could take the train, rent a car or hop on a plane.”

“Hop on a plane?” Even as he said it, he could only imagine hopping onto something flat. “I don't understand.”

“An airplane? You really don't know much, do you? Do you have money?”

Nicolo nodded quickly. He'd figure out some means to recompense before leaving the establishment.

The door behind him creaked, and in wandered two women, chattering loudly. They sat at a table in the dark corner next to a front window, and the barkeep brought them two bottles of wine.

Nicolo turned his attention to them. They wore trousers so short they revealed skin all up to their thighs! And what gorgeous legs that glided a long way down to their feet, which boasted strappy shoes on them. And their shirts were cut so low he saw the crease between their abundant breasts. They must be freezing in this chilly establishment. But when the one winked at him and raised a bottle of wine in a toast, Nicolo's grin grew.

He recognized an invitation when he saw one.

* * *

The donor had been dozing outside a quiet cottage that looked like something from a Kimball painting. It had gone down quickly. Summer had taken but a few sips. Enthralling him to think good thoughts and fight the inevitable madness, she had then stepped away. She never stayed to see what results would come of her bite. That was asking for emotional heartache. Once she'd drunk too long and had actually witnessed her donor's descent into madness. He'd beat his forehead against a brick wall. His body had shuddered, and he'd clamped his arms about his chest, crying and wailing. She'd fled, hoping it would be temporary. It had to be, yes?

Her weird ability to change her donors was her dark nemesis.

“Find the dead guy,” she muttered, focusing her thoughts as she got out of the car and walked across the street.

The Sneezing Cow tavern was one of those cozy little hideaways at the edge of town that most tourists passed by for the peeling paint on the outer stucco walls and the general lack of signage stating it did, indeed, serve liquor. But the tiny drunk lemon motif in the window clued Summer that inside she could find limoncello, which was her favorite aperitif. She didn't do human food, but the occasional refreshment was always welcome.

Summer walked inside the tavern, eyed the dark corner where two women giggled and noted they were draped over a man who sucked in the attention as if with a straw.

She made way to the bar where, after asking, she was promptly served an icy yellow drink.
“Grazie,”
she said. “He's not giving you any problems, is he?”

The bartender pushed back his long gray hair and winced. He wobbled his hand before her as he said in Italian, “I'm not sure he's going to pay.”

She picked out the words
pay
and
not
from his Italian. She knew Nicolo wouldn't, because what man came alive after a hundred and seventy-five years of death with a credit card and bank accounts? Was she going to have to teach him about the world and babysit him until he got his feet on the ground? The prospect didn't sound as awful as it should, considering her list of things she found attractive in a man had apparently grown longer with the addition of “recently deceased.”

But the women would have to go.

“I got it,” she said and laid enough cash on the counter to cover a good hour's worth of drink. Bottles, not glasses, she guessed, as another side glance spied one of the brunettes tilting back a dark wine bottle to her lips. “He's harmless.” She hoped.

With a wink from the bartender, Summer sipped her sour lemon drink, then turned to go corral her new ward. She'd gotten them both into this situation. Now to deal with it.

Paganini acknowledged her with a wide rogue's grin as he spread out his arms to embrace each woman wedged against him. She had to stop thinking of him as Paganini. Nicolo was his first name. It would help her to idolize him less. And right now, that was easy enough with the sluts he'd found casting her shade.

“Summer, you will join me and my new friends for a drink?”

Thank the goddess she'd had that sip before coming in here. It would make dealing with this easier because she was cool and collected right now. “We should get back on the road,” she said. “I'm sure you're eager to find your violin.”

“But you already know where it is.”

True. She'd lied to him about it being on its way to Paris. The guy was newly alive. He couldn't be operating on all pistons yet. Fingers crossed.

Nicolo tilted back a long swallow from the wine bottle, then said, “What's a little stop along the way to renew my memory of humanity?”

“Why are you talking about violins?” one of the women asked in a drunken slur. A shift of her shoulder lifted her double Ds closer to Nicolo's grinning face.

Mercy, his taste in women was— She'd cut him some slack. He had only been alive again for a few hours. And in the short trek he'd taken from the coffin to the tavern, Summer guessed the selection of women had not been overwhelmingly vast or varied. They were tourists looking for a good time with a sexy looker.