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Sunday, March 23, 2008
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Chapter 1 ~ Wait Till Your Vampire Gets Home
Current mood:  hopeful
Category: Writing and Poetry
WAIT TILL YOUR VAMPIRE GETS HOME
By Michele Bardsley
Chapter 1
I hugged the large oak tree as I tried to catch my breath. Sneaking around this creepy little town in the dark—and during winter, no less—was such a bad idea. Especially considering that I’d been scared out of my wits by those … those howls. Shivers raced up and down my spine. What in the world had made those terrifying sounds? Surely not dogs. Coyotes? Wolves? Eek! My shivering turned into full-body shudders. "Crystal one, crystal one," spat my cell phone. It was on two-way radio mode. "Please state your location." My gloves were thick, but I managed to press the button on the phone’s side. "Seriously, Mom. Do we have to use ridiculous code names?" "I almost named you Crystal." Her tone suggested she’d always regretted that decision. Oh, please. Burdening an infant with "Seraphina Liberty Windsong Monroe" was bad enough. I started calling myself Libby at the age of ten, much to Mom’s disappointment. However, my parents were all about free expression and independent thinking. If their only child desired to be called Libby, that desire would be honored. "Crystal one?" I rolled my eyes. "I’m here, Ruby two. I’m still in the woods, but I can see the cemetery, so I’ll head toward it. Where are you?" "We’re just off the main road, walking toward a place called the Thrifty Sip. It looks abandoned. Sapphire three is lamenting his hoped-for ICEE." I laughed. My dad’s single dietary weakness was a frothy, sugary, colorful ICEE, which my mother equated to the devil’s brew. Dad told me once that everyone needed to indulge in one bad-for-you thing. "Makes life worth living, peanut," he’d said with a wink. I clicked the button again. "Any signs of Bigfoot?" "None," responded Mom. "But those howls sounded promising. Werewolves, maybe." For the last few months, stories about Broken Heart, Oklahoma had circulated among paranormal investigators. Everything from sightings of Bigfoot to tales of flying men had been bandied about until my parents could no longer resist the challenge. They’d spent the last twenty-five years trying to prove that vampires, werewolves, Bigfoot, angels, aliens, other dimensions and all kinds of supernatural phenomenon existed. In 1983, they started Paranormal Research and Investigation Services a.k.a. PRIS. I was born two years later, and they’d raised me to believe in the paranormal. We’d lived on the road, so I’d been homeschooled. My curriculum included Math, English, Astral Projection and Psychic Phenomenon. I got my GED then I took the certificate course at the Institute of Transpersonal Psychology. After I finished the 12-month program, I went to California and enrolled in the HCH Institute. Another year, another certificate—this one in Parapsychological Studies. Getting those certificates weren’t nearly as much fun as slogging through the Louisiana swamps looking for Bayou Boo, half man and half alligator. At the age of twenty-three, I’d been itching to strike out on my own. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in my parents’ dreams of discovering the unknown, or in most cases, the unbelievable. I yearned for something all my own. I supposed it was time to create a life that I wanted … only I didn’t yet know what I wanted. I tucked the phone into my coat pocket. We were supposed to meet back at the car in thirty minutes. We’d been in Tulsa to check out a haunted hotel (nope, no ghosties), and decided to hit Broken Heart on the way to meet our team in Texas.
Ack! So. Freaking. Cold. And I was still unnerved by the animal cries. I listened for the howls, relieved when I heard nothing but the wind rattling the branches above me. Some investigator I was! I wasn’t supposed to let little things like werewolves (ack!) and freezing weather stop me. I pressed my cheek against the tree. No warmth there. Why hadn’t I thought of a ski mask? The black parka had done a fair job of keeping most of me warm, but the hood offered no protection to my face. My skin felt scraped raw by the chilled air. The rough bark wasn’t exactly helping, either. I let go of the tree, but stayed close. I readjusted the strap of my oversized purse, which clunked in protest. My parents were big believers in being prepared and they’d taught me many skills. MacGyver had nothing on us. I inhaled the loamy smell of earth and the crisp scent of pine. It felt like tiny icicles were forming in my nose and my lungs. I clenched the oak and peered around the wide trunk. A man knelt next a heart-shaped marble tombstone, which looked worse for wear. The top right corner had broken off. He placed an armful of brightly colored silk flowers on the ground and appeared to be talking to the headstone. Oh, crap. Spying on someone in a graveyard was so wrong. But I couldn’t quite convince myself to walk away. I was fairly close, but because my glasses were flotsam in the junk sea of my purse, I had to squint to read the inscription: Therese Rosemarie Genessa Beloved Wife and Mother 1975 - 2005 He wasn’t exactly dressed for cold weather. He wore white Nikes, jeans, and a thick, blue sweater. No coat, gloves, or hat. He looked like a normal guy. Nice bod, but not one made by Bowflex. Who knew? Maybe that sweater hid some rock-hard abs. He took out a spade and starting to dig around the edge of the marble base.
The silence was ungodly. No chirping crickets, stir of little mammals, or twitter of birds. In this odd quiet, the spade rasped unpleasantly as the man thrust it into the soil and piled it nearby. Rasp. Thud. Rasp. Thud. Feeling more and more uncomfortable, I studied the rest of the cemetery. Tombstones were tilted, broken, or fallen. The place looked as if it had been ravaged by an earthquake. It looked old, but not uncared-for. I idly wondered what had happened to the place. My gaze returned to the man. I really shouldn’t get any closer. But I wasn’t interested in retracing my steps. I might accidentally find the source of those hair-raising howls. He might not know it, but the guy tending the grave was the closest thing to safety I had right now. About five feet away was a lone pine tree with thickly covered branches. I shot out from my cover and raced to the pine, ducking under its flagging limbs. The needles poked at me, so I scrunched down. I was near enough to see his determined expression. He had brown hair, cut short. A nice, friendly face. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but pleasant. I crouched next to the tree and watched him dig a narrow trench. Then he stuck the flowers in and arranged them. I don’t know why I stayed. Watching a man do this heart-wrenching work wasn’t exactly polite. I guess I just didn’t want to leave. I felt like someone needed to stand watch with him, even if he was unaware of my presence. Stupid, right? The wind kicked up, slicing at my face like Ginsu knives. I clamped my lips together to keep my teeth from chattering. The man finished putting the flowers together, scooped the dirt around ’em, and patted down the soil with the flat end of the spade. He stared at the grave and I stared at him. Something about him niggled at me. His face was a shade too pale. I couldn’t fault a guy who wasn’t into baking his skin. No, it was his utter stillness that freaked me out. "You can come out now." He stood up, dusted off his jeans, and turned his gaze directly to the pine tree. To me. How had I given myself away? Even though moments earlier I’d thought of him as my safety net, I knew better than just to stroll out and introduce myself. I’d learned over the years that not everything was as it seemed. He looked nice and sounded nice, but hey, so did serial killers—right until they stuck a knife to your throat. "You are not afraid. You will come to me," he said. His tone dropped an octave and went all seductive. Yeah, right, Mr. Sexy Voice. I clutched the tree while my mind raced. Oh, to hell with it. I ducked out from underneath the unwieldy branches and raced toward the forest. I heard the growls two seconds before I saw the animals issuing the threats. Two huge, pissed-off wolves raced toward me. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! "Aaaaaaaaahhhh!" My scream echoed into the dense forest. Heart thumping, stomach roiling, fear prickling, I made a U-turn and ran back the other way. Their growls gave way to fierce barking. I shot past the pine tree. He was still there! My grave-digging safety man! His puzzled expression switched to alarm. His eyes went wide and he dropped the spade, which was a good thing, because I launched myself at him. He caught me, staggered backward, and then tried to let me go. "Pick me up! Pick me up!" I screeched. "Save me already!"
12:06 PM
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Tuesday, February 19, 2008
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Chapter 1 ~ Because Your Vampire Said So
Current mood:  adventurous
Category: Writing and Poetry
BECAUSE YOUR VAMPIRE SAID SO
By Michele Bardsley
Chapter 1"I ain't a groomin' service," I said, wishing I could still smoke Marlboros. Becoming a vampire cured me of most vices. If I couldn't breathe, I sure as hell couldn't inhale and exhale cigarette smoke. I wanted a donor who smoked, so I'd get a nice fix every time I had a pint. Unfortunately, the Consortium—which was in charge of our little piece of Oklahoma—didn't hire donors who abused their bodies. Yet, I hoped for the day I'd find me some nicotine blood.
"You give such good shampoo massages, Patsy," said Darrius, who was a fine-looking male. He could shape-shift into a big, black wolf, too. In either form, Darrius was hard to resist. He'd talked me more than once into a full-body shampoo.
"I own a salon service for people, not mutts."
"If you added animal grooming to your offerings," he said. "You'd make more money."
"You think so?" I liked money almost as much as I liked cigarettes. I couldn't smoke anymore, but I could spend money. I hadn't been jewelry-shopping in a dog's age. I looked at Darrius and cackled. Dog's age. Wasn't I hoot?
His green eyes filled with calculation. He sidled closer to me and draped a muscled arm around my shoulders. Oo-wee, I loved it when handsome men flirted with me. Gave me a thrill, it sure enough did. I was forty-years-old (and would be forever, by God) and not above enjoying the titillation offered by Darrius. Look at him, all cute and wily.
"Oh, all right. But this is the last time." Of course, that's what I said every time Darrius and his ornery brother Drake talked me into a wolfie shampoo. Too cute for their own good, both of 'em. "You know how I feel about watching that shifting bullshit. Go in the back room."
Darrius took two steps before his cell phone rang. Cursing, he plucked it from the holster on his hip. "Ja?"
After listening a moment, he sighed deeply. He shut the phone and re-inserted it into the case. "I must take a rain check, Liebling. Damian says there is an emergency, but with him, everything is an emergency."
Damian was the third brother; the oldest, by eleven minutes, of triplets. He was head of the Consortium's security, and he protected the borders of Broken Heart fiercely. He never asked for a shampoo.
Darrius kissed my cheek then tapped my nose with his forefinger. "I will be back, Patsy. Then you can rub me all over."
"Promises, promises, stud."
He grinned widely and turned around. I slapped that tight butt so hard my palm stung. He laughed and sauntered out of the salon. Looking at that fine posterior almost made it worth digging out the wolf hair from my tub.
As Darrius exited, cold air gusted through the door and brought with the promise of snow. Well, what can you do? It was the first week of November, after all. Then again, Oklahoma weather was as fickle as my sister at a half-price shoe sale. Yesterday, the temperature had been a balmy sixty-six degrees.
I turned the sign on the front door to "Closed," then I grabbed the broom and started sweeping the clean floor. I'd been feeling off-kilter lately. You know that prickly feeling you get when a storm's coming, but the sky is clear? Whatever-it-was teased the horizon just enough to keep me clutching my umbrella.
My thoughts drifted to Darrius's suggestion. Grooming services, huh? We had enough lycanthropes around these parts that I could make some extra money as an animal groomer. Business wasn't exactly brisk thanks to ousting most of the original residents. Anyone who wasn't a paranormal being or a human donor found themselves elsewhere in a hurry.
I used to have two employees, but they were given new jobs in Tulsa, as part of the Broken Heart citizen resettlement program. My nail girl Linda got re-assigned as an assistant to scientist Dr. Stan Michaels. She was mightily in love with that man, but wouldn't admit it.
Anyway, Broken Heart wasn't exactly a hopping town before the undead took over. Less than a year ago, the only thing that had saved my salon from closing had been the strippers from the Barley and Boob Barn, which had been shut down and razed in June. Aw, hell. I missed those girls. They were fun and raunchy and tipped real good.
I was "life-challenged" because of Lorcan O'Halloran. Diseased by the Taint—a nasty illness that only affects vampires—he'd attempted a radical cure. The cure turned him into a two-legged, hairy, stinky beast. He romped around ol' Broken Heart and killed eleven of us single parents.
Oh, now, don't worry. He's back to being a vampire. He married my friend Eva, Broken Heart's only teacher. She was obviously the forgiving sort, but I still felt uneasy around Lorcan.
The night he attacked me, I'd been outside my shop smoking a cigarette. If I'd known that was the last smoke I was ever gonna have, I would've enjoyed it a lot more. Anyway, I died. Wham! Knocked down, knocked out, and snacked on. Next night, I woke up on a steel table in a white room feeling more alive than ever—only to be told I wasn't. And I figured out real quick that I had gained a few new tricks.
It wasn't all bad. My crow's feet, cellulite, age spots, and the ol' saggies went bye-bye. I had clear, wrinkle-free skin, but no amount of vampifying could rid me of my height, a couple inches shy of six feet, or what my son called "fluffiness." Eva said I reminded her of a Valkyrie, which was some sort of Viking chick who kicked ass. I liked that description, I'll tell you.
The Consortium bought my place and gave it to me lock, stock, and barrel, and they paid all bills associated with it and my double-wide, which was twenty feet behind the salon. I didn't have much to do with the money I made, except abuse my credit card on the Home Shopping Network.
"Good evening, Patricia."
The man's voice startled me, but I kept my cool. One thing I'd learned from my ex-husband was that offense was the best defense. "Do you ignore all the signs you read, or just the ones on doors?"
I turned around and leaned on the broom. A man I'd never seen stood inside the doorway, staring at me. And he was built, honey. Mm-hmm. I saw the muscles bulging underneath the crisp white shirt opened at the collar. He also wore a pair of tight black jeans and … I'll be damned. He had himself a pair of black Prada Croc Sneakers. I liked boots and didn't wear much else. Wilson had shown me a magazine ad with those Crocs and said he wanted them. Even though our existence was no longer hand-to-mouth, I couldn't justify buying a pair of shoes that cost twice as much as my mortgage payment.
What was a guy wearing thousand-dollar pair of kicks doing in my shop? Shoot. What did it matter? Most of the paranormal beings running around our fair town were richer than God.
He didn't seem to mind I was looking him over. As I took his measure, he took mine. His long hair was so white it looked like captured moonbeams. It was drawn into a queue at the back of his neck. If that hair wasn't enough to make the hairstylist in me slobber, then his golden eyes made the woman in me go mreow. Those mesmerizing amber orbs reminded me of the sunsets I would never see again.
Damn. He was temptation itself. I was a celibate as a nun because of vampires had a hitched-for-hundred-years sex clause. My last marriage lasted eighteen years and that was seventeen years, three-hundred-and-sixty four days longer than it should have. I swore I wouldn't walk down the aisle ever again, much less fall in love. No, thank you.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"My name's Gabriel." He smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile. It was more like a I'll-eat-you-up grin. I shivered all the way to my toes. "Damian sent me. His orders are to secure your beauty shop and to walk you home."
"Why? Are more Wraiths sneaking around or something?"
Wraiths were vampires who thought they should rule the world, being the superior race. Hah. They'd attacked Broken Heart twice and hadn't accomplished much more than pissing off the residents.
He shrugged. "I do what the boss tells me."
I clutched the broom handle, suddenly uneasy. Handsome as he was, I'd never seen him before. Drake and Darrius were always showing up 'round here for one thing or another, but it didn't make a lick of sense for Damian to send me a guardian.
The man seemed to sense my distress. "You want to call him and ask?" He unclipped his cell phone from his belt and extended it toward me.
I looked at the phone and then at him. If he was willing to let me call Damian and check up on him, then surely he was legit. Yeah, right. I may be blonde, but I ain't stupid.
"I have him on speed dial." I dug my phone out my back jean pocket and flipped it open. The only weapons I had were the broom, my vamp skills, and my charming wit—none of which would disarm him.
I hit the button and put the phone to my ear. Damian picked up on the first ring. "Ja?"
"I got a tall drink of water over here who says you sent him."
"You have a what?"
"You are so cliché-challenged," I said. "There's a guy here who wants to hold my hand and walk me home. Did you send him or do I have to whack him with my broom?"
He sighed. "New policy, Patsy. Every Turn-blood has a guardian until … well, I say so. Consider him your new shadow. And do not whack him with anything."
Damian hung up. He wasn't much for hellos or good-byes. I put my phone away. "I guess you're my new best pal. Wanna tell me why?"
"You should ask Damian."
"Yeah. It's easier to catch a greased hog than it is to pry information outta that man."
Gabriel's lips turned up into an almost grin. Mm-mmm. My stomach did a little mambo. Handsome wasn't a good enough word to describe him.
All the same, I felt trapped. I didn't particularly like being bossed around, especially by Consortium puppets. I pretended that him standing there looking all big and powerful and yummy didn't bother me.
"It makes no never mind to me what you do," I lied. "I gotta lock up now."
I finished sweeping up then turned off the lights. I had to bolt the front door, which meant getting awful close to Gabriel. Heat emanated off him, like an invisible fire raged around him. His gaze caught mine; the look in his amber gaze made my stomach jump. Lust zinged through me and he knew it. His lips curved into a feral smile.
I put on my lambskin jacket then headed out the back door. Gabriel followed and leaned against the wall, watching me lock up. As soon as I was done, I whirled around and hurried across the high grass toward my double-wide. I didn't want the luscious Gabriel within my orbit for too long. I was prone to make bad decisions around men like him.
Behind me, I heard a whoosh, and then I heard Gabriel yell. Whomp. Thud.
Fear spun through me, but I turned around. And screamed.
The massive creature was at least eight feet tall. He had marbled gray skin and completely black eyes. His hairless head gleamed in the moonlight. As he took as step toward me, the ground shook. He grinned at me and revealed double rows of needle-sharp teeth.
I didn't see my bodyguard anywhere—until I fell ass over teakettle over him. I landed way too close to the monster's clawed feet.
I scrabbled backwards, right into the unconscious form of Gabriel. Some guardian he turned out to be! I scooted over him, knelt by his head, and shook his shoulders. "Hey, you! Get up now!"
The creature watched me in amusement. Dread snaked through me. Gabriel's moonshine hair spilled onto the ground. I detected his shallow breathing and the steady beat of his heart.
"Your boyfriend can take a punch," he said. His voice sounded like thunder. He crossed his huge arms, his expression grim. "Usually that move kills lycans."
Fear chilled me even more than the frigid air. The storm threatening my horizon was here and damned if I didn't have my umbrella.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice quivering.
"You."
Horror kept me wielded to the ground. I couldn't move. My gaze was glued to the ugly thing bending toward me over Gabriel, who was trapped between us. He enjoyed my terror, the bastard. His curved claws grazed my shoulders as he tried to grab me.
That's when I remembered I was a vampire.
I swung a right hook at his jaw. Pain jolted down my arm on contact, but the strength of the punch made him stagger back. He looked as shocked as I felt.
The growl surprised us both.
My gaze switched to Gabriel. He was awake, his gold eyes filled with fury. He pushed onto his hands and feet. His body arched, his flesh rippling. I heard the snap of bones and the snick of muscles realigning. His clothes and his expensive shoes shredded and fell to the ground.
His face elongated into a large snout filled with sharp teeth. His long hair flowed down his back and joined with the white fur sprouting over every inch of skin.
Snapping and snarling, the white wolf lunged for the monster.
11:44 PM
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Tuesday, November 21, 2006
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Chapter 1 ~ Don't Talk Back To Your Vampire
Current mood:  productive
DON'T TALK BACK TO YOUR VAMPIRE
By Michele Bardsley
Chapter 1
When Lorcan O'Halloran, 4,000-year-old vampire and professed Druid, fell at my feet, it wasn't to beg forgiveness for killing me three months ago.
Sunrise was imminent, but there I was on my front porch, teeth brushed, hair shining, and wearing Happy Bunny jammies and matching socks, waiting not for a lover's rendezvous or for the return of my teenaged daughter Tamara (she was listening to Marilyn Manson in her room … shudder).
I was waiting for a dog.
Well, he was more like a wolf. I'd befriended the poor creature almost a month ago—and I had fallen in love with the brute, whom I'd named Lucky. He hadn't come by tonight and I was worried. Ever since I got undead, animals loved me. They showed up at my house, hung out in my yard, and followed me everywhere. No one could account for this sudden, odd attraction; I was starting to feel like a heroine in a Disney cartoon.
I was Broken Heart's librarian, a job my paternal grandmother had held until her death a year ago. We shared the same name—Evangeline Louise LeRoy—but that was our only link. My father died when I was two-years-old; my mother had lost touch with the LeRoys long ago. Inheriting the job and the mansion/library had been a lucky break for me and Tamara. We needed a fresh start. I was ready for a different kind of life.
Admittedly, becoming a vampire wasn't what I had in mind. And neither was becoming an undead Dr. Doolittle.
Lucky usually loped in from the pocket of woods near my monster house that was part residence and part Broken Heart library (think of it as a smaller, weirder version of the Winchester Mystery House). He always sat at the edge of my yard, watching me feed the other animals. I can't explain why I felt so connected to him, especially since so many other creatures vied for my attention. He always looked sad and lonely; he never got close enough for me to pet him. It was almost like he wanted to be comforted, but didn't feel worthy enough.
What female can resist the lure of the tortured bad boy—two-legged or four-legged? He seemed scarred somehow. I wondered what had happened to him. Had he lost his mate? Most wolf species were loyal to their mates—serial monogamy it was called—but not every sort of wolf mated for life. When I looked at Lucky, he just struck me as the type who was soulmate material.
I don't know why I looked up. Lucky had never arrived by air. Worry turned to confusion and then to horror when Lorcan fell out of the sky and rolled across my yard. I watched him struggle to stand and weave toward the porch. While I stood rooted to the spot, he climbed the steps and reached for me.
I reared back and yelped.
Here was the man who'd killed me. He was the reason I was a vampire.
"Don't be afraid. Please." He swayed like a willow tree in a thunderstorm and collapsed at my feet.
Zarking fardwarks.
I crouched beside him and pushed away the silky black hair that covered his angelic face. He was beautiful—in the way that Satan was beautiful. You'd give him your soul and he'd eat it for breakfast. No, thanks. I'd already known that kind of devil.
"Lorcan?" I whispered. I felt monumentally tired. Sunrise was near. I either took him inside or I left him on the porch. Since he was the brother-in-law of my friend Jessica, who had married Lorcan's twin brother a couple months ago, I probably shouldn't leave him to fry in the sun.
His eyes fluttered open and that solemn gray gaze made me think of a lonely, scarred landscape. "On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb," I murmured.
"Wuthering Heights," he said hoarsely.
Then he smiled.
That smile went right through me like a bolt of pure electricity. I was stunned by my response. Maybe it was because I had never seen Lorcan genuinely smile—his lips often curved in sad imitations, as if he were afraid to show real joy. Not that I'd ever had cause to get closer than ten feet to him, but still … my undead heart did a ferocious tap-dance. I had never seen a man so heartbreakingly handsome. Other than his twin, of course. Patrick had a more ebullient spirit, especially since marrying Jessica. Lorcan, on the other hand, wore sorrow like a favorite coat. I had never seen him without it. Maybe he liked being penitent and grief-stricken.
Lorcan's hand warbled up like a bird with a broken wing. He cupped my cheek. "Evangeline LeRoy. Beautiful, you are."
The Irish brogue was thick and hearing my full name uttered in that lyrical tone created another shock of electric lust.
"We need to get inside." I pulled him to his feet and he wrapped his arm around my neck.
The front door slammed shut behind us. To the left was a formal living room that I never used, except to get to the stairs that led to the second and third floors. The furniture was still draped with dusty canvases. To the right was the double-door entrance to the library. In the middle was a long, narrow hallway. First door on the left led to my tiny office; second door was a private bathroom. Last door on the right—painted black, white skull and crossbones in its middle—was the entrance to my fifteen-year-old daughter's room: the lair of Tamara. Da. Da. Da. Dum.
As Lorcan and I walked past, the door swung open and my daughter popped out. Music blasted—a cacophony of screams and metallic bashing that made me flinch. "G'night, Mom." She gaped at us. "Holy shit!"
"Don't cuss," I said automatically. We both loved language and swearing seemed such a waste of good wordage. However, Tamara had been cussing more and more often lately, probably to see how far she could take it before I did something discipline-like. She was fifteen going on fifty. Despite her deep immersion into all things dark (and as the child of a vampire, could you blame her?), she was a sweet kid.
"Holy Zarquon's singing fish," intoned Tamara. She knew I loved The Hitchhiker Guide's To The Galaxy series. "Huh. Not quite as satisfying as yelling 'shit!'"
"Speak for yourself. I find zarking fardwarks rather felicific."
"Wowser," she accused.
"I am not puritanical."
"You're not taking him into the basement, are you?"
"If you used your eyes, you could see that he's hurt and needs help."
Her gaze took in the six feet of hunk and she whistled. "His clothes are mess, but did you see his abs? You could scrub clothes on that washboard. Yum!"
I rolled my eyes. "Can you control your hormones, please?" I'm having a hard enough time with my own.
Finally chastised, she hurried forward, getting ahead of us. I dragged Lorcan through the large kitchen and toward the thick, metal door. The only safe place in my three-story, decrepit house was the basement, where I had relocated after becoming, as my daughter put it, vampified.
The steel door was the Consortium's idea as was the metallic glaze that coated the basement's walls—über protection against light, which could kill a vampire. Not just the sun's rays, either; any bright, hot light would do.
Tamara opened the door. She patted my shoulder. "Sorry for being splenetic." She grimaced, obviously torn between being cool, indifferent teen and caring, worried daughter. "What should I do?"
"Just go to bed, baby. Everything will be fine by tonight."
She nodded. Lorcan and I hit the stairs; the door clicked shut behind us. Even though it was pitch-black dark to human eyes, I could see just fine.
My sleeping quarters consisted of mountains of books, a huge yellow Love Sac—which looked like giant's punctured tennis ball—and a king-sized cherrywood sleigh bed, complete with Tempur-Pedic mattress and extra large, fluffy pillows. I was a pillow whore. There were six propped against the headboard. I was also a sheet snob: if it wasn't 300-thread-count or higher, I wasn't sleeping on it.
The Love Sac was obscenely comfortable; I had napped in it many times. I thought about chucking Lorcan into it and throwing a blanket over him. Guiltily, I looked at the bed. It was the ultimate in sleeping accommodations, especially with its very soft sheets and plumped pillows.
"Eva," whispered Lorcan. "My chest hurts."
Guilt stabbed me anew. As gently as I could, I laid him on the bed. I flicked on the lamp perched on a small table by the bed. The pool of weak light wasn't much, but with my vampire sight, I could almost see molecules in moonlight. Lorcan looked a mess, all right. His black pants were dirty and torn; his black dress shirt was in shreds. Blood streaked his chest, though the wounds were already healing. Dirt smudged his face, but in a boyish way.
I dug out a box of wet wipes from a paperback pile-up on the floor and cleaned his face. Even though his shirt hung in tatters, I hesitated to take it off. Exhaustion poured heavily through me and I knew I probably only had minutes before I passed out. Vampires really didn't have much choice about their sleeping habits—sunrise, you sleep and sunset, you awake. No alarms needed.
"Your shirt," I said. "Can you—"
He muttered Gaelic and to my utter shock the shirt disappeared. His bared chest with its dusting of dark hair was revealed in full. Tamara had been right—washboard abs. Yum.
"Jessica told me Patrick pulls that trick all the time," I said as I took wet wipes to the dirt and blood. I tried sound blasé, but very few vampires had the power and talents of Patrick and Lorcan O'Halloran. Making clothes disappear—and reappear—was rather impressive.
"I can do the pants, too," he said. His eyes flickered open and I saw amusement glitter in those silver orbs.
"No, no." I considered his jeans. "Unless you're hurt … somewhere."
"Oh, I do ache, love," he said in a liquid voice. His hand drifted to my hair and fluttered like a butterfly caught in a web. "I ache for you."
I knew then he was delusional. If he wasn't out of his head, I might fall for those seductive words. It had been a really long time since I'd felt wanted, much less loved. Annoyed with the direction of my thoughts, I tucked Lorcan under the covers, and grabbed a pillow. At least the Love Sac offered some comfort.
As I rose from the bed, Lorcan snagged my wrist. "We can both sleep here. I won't bite."
"Yeah, right."
I hadn't meant it as a reminder that he had a lethal bite. I couldn't snatch back the words now. Why pretend he hadn't killed me? Still, when his eyes went flat and he let go of my wrist, my stomach dropped to my toes.
"Forgive me, Eva."
The words were drenched in anguish. I felt as though I'd held something pretty and fragile—and it disintegrated because I'd gripped too hard.
Feeling penitent myself, I brushed his long, black hair away from his face. "Rest now," I said. "You can tell me what happened to you tomorrow."
"Damnú air! Stop being so nice." He yanked me onto the bed and I fell beside him. The struggle to get up and away from him ended in an instant.
Dawn was breaking—and I didn't need to see it, to know it. I felt the heavy blanket of sleep draw over me. But as the familiar darkness encroached on my consciousness … I felt Lorcan drag me into his embrace.
#
Some vampires don't dream.
I don't remember dreaming, either. Not until Lucky arrived. The first night he crept into my yard, sitting dolefully at its edge and staring at me with such sad longing was also the first night, or rather day, I dreamed.
It was the same dream every time—as vivid and as colorful as a well-kept photograph. I stood in a dark, thick forest, but in a little clearing where the tall trees cupped the night sky. Looking up, I could see the round, pale moon and the single black-stoned tower that imprisoned something I wanted very badly.
I couldn't name this treasure. I didn't know what was in that tower. I just felt an incredibly sweet yearning … as if my life would be complete if I could reach that tower and take what was in it.
As usual, I wore a royal-blue dress. It had wide sleeves, a square neck, an empire waist, and a straight skirt. My hair, which I never wore long, was piled onto my head except for a few ringlets that draped my neck. On my feet were thin slippers the same color as my dress. I loved fairy tales, so it wasn't difficult to find a cause for my appearance—or for that matter, the dream's setting.
Just as I did every time, I plunged into the dank, creepy woods. Skeletal limbs pulled at my hair and tore at my dress. I pushed onward, desperation raking me with icy claws. I lost my shoes; my bare feet sank into the mud and were scored by sharp rocks.
Low growls echoed behind me and the chill of desperation turned into the Artic sensation of fear. Pushing through low branches and thick underbrush, I finally managed to reach the base of the tower. The growls grew louder, more menacing.
I hurried around the tower, searching for a way inside. There was no door, no hole in the stonework, nothing. In all the dreams before, I had never found the entrance.
But I did tonight.
I saw a sparkly gold rose appear on one of the black stones. Mesmerized, I pressed my palm against it. Stones disappeared and left a rectangle of black. The shadowy creatures chasing me burst out of the thorny brambles, so I dashed inside the magical door. It sealed up behind me instantly, leaving the monsters to scramble and howl outside.
The tower was narrow. I stood before a twisting stair. Blue sparkling orbs of light danced around the base. As my foot touched the first step, the orbs frolicked upward. Every time I advanced, they moved ahead, beckoning me. It seemed as though hours passed as I climbed and climbed and climbed. My bare feet chafed against the rough stones and my legs ached terribly.
Finally, I reached a doorway. There was no door, just an empty, black space. Heart pounding, I hesitated. What I wanted so much was beyond the inky darkness. The playful lights bounced and twirled at the entrance, waiting for me to decide.
I stepped through. The blue circles raced ahead, bubbles of excitement, and lit the circular room. The only object in it was a huge four-poster bed. Silver curtains cascaded around it like a shimmery waterfall, concealing whatever slept behind.
I hadn't expected this. Frowning, I looked around the bed. What I was looking for was in the bed? Yes, what I wanted, what I needed, was there. Yet, I hesitated, afraid.
"Fear not, princess," whispered an otherworldly voice. "Would you give up now? When you are so close?"
Clutching the edge of the fabric, I drew back the curtain. Wetting my dry lips, I heaved a breath and looked.
"You found me," said the big, black wolf. Then he leapt off the bed and tore out my throat.
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I'm the Vampire, That's Why (Signet Eclipse)
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Michele Bardsley
Release date: 05 September, 2006
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Chapter 1 ~ I'm The Vampire, That's Why
Current mood:  working
Category: Writing and Poetry
I'M THE VAMPIRE, THAT'S WHY
Michele Bardsley
Chapter 1
The night I died, I was wrestling a garbage can to the curb.
I had a perfectly healthy fourteen-year-old son who should have taken out the garbage after dinner, but he, and let me quote him directly here, "forgot."
Every Sunday and Wednesday night we had the same conversation, usually five minutes after he crawled into bed. Here's the script:
Enter the Mother into the Pit of the Despair. I refuse to walk more than a foot into the Pit because I'm afraid a radiated tentacle might emerge from a gooey pile of papers and clothes and drag me, screaming and clutching at the faded carpet, into the smells-like-lima-beans clutter. I open the door, try not to inhale any noxious boy-room fumes, and delicately scoot one Ked-protected foot inside. Cue dialogue.
"G'night, honey. And Bry? Did you take out the garbage?"
"Oops."
"It's twice a week. It's your only chore. I pay you ten bucks every Friday morning to do it."
"It's a heinous chore."
"I know. That's why I pay you to do it."
"Sorry, Mom. I forgot."
At this point in the twice-weekly argument, variations occurred. Sometimes, Bryan faked snores until I went away, sometimes he actually fell asleep mid-lecture, and sometimes he whined about how his nine-year-old sister Jenny didn't do chores and I still paid her five dollars every Friday morning.
So, yet again, just after ten p.m. on a Wednesday night, I found myself pulling first one, then the second thirty-gallon garbage can down the driveway, and trying to align the grimy plastic containers near, but not off, the curb. Do not get me started on sloppy, lid-flinging, half-trash-dumping garbage men who are extraordinarily picky about the definition of "curbside pick-up."
When huge, hairy hands grabbed my shoulders and heaved me across the street and into Mrs. Ryerson's prized rose bushes, I didn't have time to scream, much less panic. The whatever-it-was leapt upon me and ripped open my neck, snuffling and snarling as it sucked at the bleeding wound.
Good God. What sort of man-creature could hold a grown woman down like a Great Dane and gnaw on her like a favorite chew toy? It slurped and slurped and slurped … until the excruciating pain (and honey, I've suffered through labor twice) faded into a feeling of weightlessness. I felt very floaty, like my body had turned into mist, or like that time in college when I took a hit of acid and had the "Tinkerbell" episode. I knew that if I just let go, I'd rise into the night sky and free myself from gravity … from responsibility … from Bryan and Jenny.
Just thinking about my kids slammed me down to Earth. My husband had passed away a little more than year ago in a car accident. Don't feel too sorry for me, though. I was in the middle of divorcing the son-of-a-bitch.
I couldn't scream. I couldn't lift my arms. I couldn't open my eyes. But I felt my body again, every aching, pain-throbbing inch of it. The heavy, smelly thing pressing my limp body into thorny branches and noisily smacking against my throat grunted and rolled off. Dry grass crunched and leaves rattled as it moved, growling and groaning like well-fed coyote. I didn't flicker an eyelid for fear it would try for a killing blow, though if the state of my neck wound was as bad as I thought, I was dead anyway. Then I heard the sounds of bare feet slapping against pavement and realized the thing was running away. Fast.
I don't remember how I disentangled my sorry self from the bushes. I have vague memories of the roses' too sweet scent as I crawled across the street and collapsed near my knocked-over garbage cans.
For those who know me, meeting my end amid muttered curses and spilled refuse was not a great shock. But, shock or not, it was still a crappy way to go.
* * *
Some people believe that dying ends all possibilities of humiliation.
Not so.
When I awoke, I wasn't standing at the pearly gates of heaven. Well, not unless the religious definition of "pearly gates" was way, way off-base.
I was latched onto the velvety inside of a muscular male thigh, my teeth embedded in the flesh near his groin, my mouth soaked with warm, very tasty liquid.
No, the man was not wearing pants. Hell, he wasn't wearing underwear. Who am I kidding? The man didn't have on a stitch of clothing.
I wish I could say that the embarrassment of my cheek brushing against his testicles outweighed my need to suck his blood—and yeah, I know, ew—but it was like … it was like … a half-off sale at Pottery Barn. No, better. It was like eating, without gastrointestinal or caloric consequences, a two-pound box of Godiva's champagne truffles. No, no … like … oh God, like finally fitting into that pair of skinny jeans that taunts every woman from the back of her closet.
Uh-huh. Now you know the ecstasy I'm talking about.
After another minute or two of sucking on the stranger's thigh, I felt firm, long fingers under my chin.
"That's enough, love," said an Irish-tinted voice. "You're healed now."
With great reluctance, I allowed the fingers cupping my jaw to disengage me from the yummy thigh. I sat up, licking my lips to get every dribble of blood (ew, again) smeared on my mouth.
"Where am I? What happened? Where are my kids?"
"Ssshhh. Everything will be explained." He tilted his head, looking me over in a way that caused heat to skitter in my stomach. "Your children are fine. Damian is watchin' them."
Damian? Who the fuck was Damian? Whoa, girl. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Well, crud. The whole breath thing wasn't working. I didn't even want to think about my lack of heartbeat. I had to stay calm. I focused on the room and realized I could see everything clearly. What the hell? I had been relying on glasses to see past my nose for almost ten years. With this kind of vision, I probably could see all the way to Canada.
"So … with all the, uh, blood-sucking, I'm guessing I'm a vampire now." Just saying "I'm" and "vampire" together was so ridiculous, I wanted to giggle.
"Yes. We Irish vampires call ourselves deamhan fhola." He grinned at me. "It means blood demon."
"Oh. Well, that's certainly … descriptive." In a bad, yucky, soulless way.
We were in some sort of small, white room. It had a long, uncomfortable steel slab sticking out from the wall and we were on it. About six feet from the steel slab on the left side of the room was a door without any visible knob or handle. That was it. White room. Steel bed. Naked man. I looked down at myself. I was in some sort of white hospital gown and I smelled like antiseptic.
I was a vampire.
Jessica Anne Matthews. Vampire.
The stupid giggle erupted and I nearly snorted and snarfed myself into a seizure. "Me. A vampire."
"Yes." The guy who'd been my life-saving snack was leaning against the wall, his knees drawn up slightly. Raven-black hair feathered away from his face, the ends of it curling on his shoulders. He watched me with the strangest eyes I'd ever seen. He looked like Pierce Brosnan in his Remington Steele days, except for the color of those eyes. "With eyes like the sea after a storm," I muttered, quoting one of my favorite lines from The Princess Bride. Those strange eyes were gray. No, silver … an ever-changing silver that seem to eddy and swirl like a fast-rising river.
Given his size, my guess was that he was just about six feet tall. He was muscular and trim like an athlete, rather than bulky like a gym freak, with a light dusting of black hair on his chest and thighs.
I might've been delirious or crazy or dreaming, but I checked out his package. It was impressive, too. From a patch of black hair sprang a large erection. His testicles tightened underneath my blatant scrutiny and I remembered the soft feel of his balls against my cheek as I suckled his flesh just inches from his groin. His gaze dropped to his penis, his lips curving upward as his eyes met mine again. He seemed to ask, "Want a ride, little girl?"
And you know what? I did. I wanted a ride. I hadn't had sex in eighteen months. Sessions with the battery-operated boyfriend did not count. The last man I trusted to touch me, to bring me pleasure, had betrayed sixteen years of marriage by doing the same lovely, naughty things to another, younger woman. Then, before I could seek proper revenge, he had gotten killed in a car accident. I always thought it had been a mundane way to go for a man who had ripped out my heart and then stomped it to bloody bits with his cloven hooves.
But I digress.
"Do not have sex with Mr. O'Halloran." The command echoed around the room. Even with my new vision, I couldn't spot the speakers.
The Pierce Brosnan look-a-like rolled his eyes. "She fed on me like I was the last Twinkie in the box. A little thanks might be in order."
"If you have sex with Mr. O'Halloran," said the voice, obviously unimpressed, "you will be mated to him for the next hundred years."
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I'm the Vampire, That's Why (Signet Eclipse)
By
Michele Bardsley
Release date: 05 September, 2006
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