The Librarian's Vampire Assistant

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  I shake my head at myself and follow Miriam between two long rows of waist-high shelves. I can’t help looking at her small body and how she hides it under layers of bulky, unflattering clothes. Does she not have a mother or sister or female friends to teach her to shop for clothing in her size?

  Then I notice her odd step. She’s walking on the balls of her slippered feet, quiet as a mouse. I suppose we are in a library.

  I shrug, feeling thoroughly amused by her quirkiness.

  She turns the corner and clips the wheel of a book cart in the middle of the aisle with her foot, sending her into an awkward stumble. I watch in slow motion as she involuntarily reaches for the cart to prevent from falling and the entire thing tips over with a crash. Books everywhere.

  Librarian down. Librarian down! I rush to her aid.

  “Are you alright?” I grab her elbow and get her to her feet.

  “Yes. Fine. I shouldn’t have left that there.” She dusts off her skirt. “I’m just so distracted lately.”

  Suddenly, a book falls from the tall shelf at our side and hurtles toward her head. Instinctively, I reach out and snatch it from the air.

  “Wow. Fast reflexes,” she says, batting her big eyes with appreciation.

  This woman is a danger magnet. I can practically feel it in the air, gravitating toward her.

  I wonder if that is why I came in here. I am very dangerous.

  She goes to right the cart, but I step around her and take over.

  “Allow me.” I have no desire to watch her lose an arm or eyeball while I’m here.

  With the books back on the cart, she thanks me and we continue on our way toward a set of double doors that lead down a hallway with one sad flickering lightbulb. A small kitchenette is off to one side and we pass a supply room.

  “My office is right here.” She pushes on the last door and invites me into a small windowless room. Books are piled everywhere—desk, floor, on top of filing cabinets.

  “It’s so…” I can’t think of anything pleasant to say, so I lie, “cheerful.”

  She doesn’t reply and instead points to an empty chair. She takes her own seat behind her desk and pushes aside a stack of books to better see me. Two books on the top go tumbling to the floor, and dust flitters into the air.

  “I’ll get that,” I say, holding in a sneeze. I cannot imagine why no one wants to work here, picking books up off the floor all day is delightful.

  I carefully place the books on the edge of her desk on the only clean spot.

  “Thank you,” she says and holds out her hand expectantly. “Why don’t you start by telling me where you’re going to school?”

  I look at her small fingers, wondering what she wants from me. “Are we supposed to shake?”

  She makes a strange little laugh that’s almost a snort. “Fast reflexes and a sense of humor. Can’t wait to see what else you have to offer.”

  I realize she’s expecting a résumé. “Oh, I’m afraid I had a terrible issue with my printer this morning; however, I can give you a complete verbal rundown and email you a copy this afternoon.” I won’t, of course, because I obviously don’t want the job. I’m killing time, and she’s my entertainment.

  “That’s all right,” she says sweetly, watching me with her keen eyes. “Why don’t you start with your library experience?”

  None. Absolutely none. I have a passion for books, but public libraries are for common people and smell funny. Plus, I’m a vampire, and we don’t particularly enjoy sharing. I have my own fine collection of books back home in Cincinnati.

  I shrug, trying to act more my age. “Libraries are a good place to work quietly.” When you get the call that your best friend has died and you’re attempting not to tear someone’s head off over it.

  “All right. No librarian experience.” She frowns and makes a note somewhere on the other side of the clutter, so I can’t see what she’s written. “What are you majoring in? Wait. You have graduated from high school, yes?”

  Me? High school student? Hardly. I try not to laugh, but her comment reminds me that I have to stop speaking like a four-hundred-year-old, especially since she thinks I’m about eighteen. I will have to inject more contractions and slang into my speech. Ummms and uhhhs are also good.

  “Yeah, I graduated.”

  “Excellent. And what are you majoring in?” she asks.

  “I, uhh…am not in school right now, but I’m considering English lit. Maybe Cambridge—uhhh…if I can get in.” I actually have a master’s degree from Cambridge, where I taught for a short while in the 1700s.

  “Really? I went there,” she says enthusiastically.

  “What year did you graduate?” I ask.

  She swipes her hand through the air. “Oh, that was years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. But I have a few friends on the staff and I love helping young people, so when you’re ready for a recommendation, you just say the word.”

  It dawns on me that this woman sees herself as my elder, and me as a child. It’s kind of adorable, really. I also like that she has a generous heart. She hardly knows me, yet she’s offered to assist in my education.

  “That’s cool. Thanks, Miriam.” I hate using that word. Cool. Sounds so ridiculous to give a compliment by commenting on something’s temperature. “So tell me about you? How long have you worked here?”

  I watch her alabaster cheeks turn a rosy pink, and her wide eyes light up with my question. I imagine it’s because no one ever thinks to ask her anything other than the location of a particular book.

  “Well,” she says, “after I completed my degree in English, I came back home and got my master of library sciences at ASU. I’ve pretty much worked here ever since. No. Wait.” She shakes her finger in the air. “I worked here part-time during summers in high school.” She smiles. “Maybe someday you’ll get through school and work here full-time, too.”

  I can’t imagine a more hellish job. Books are for owning and reading, not sorting day after day after day. On the shelf. Off the shelf. On the shelf. Off the shelf. I’d sooner go sunbathing.

  Nevertheless, I like her and I like her enthusiasm. In a small way, I might even feel a bit jealous. It’s been eons since I felt true passion for anything. Anger, need, affection—yes. Passion—no.

  My thoughts lead back to Clive. He had passion for his work. He loved finding the truth and helping people put bad situations behind them. He saw it as his contribution to the modern world. Plus, he had a knack for it. I never did. Perhaps because I never cared like he does.

  Did. Clive did care, I correct myself and feel my stomach knot with acid.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Miriam asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. Fine. I, uhhh…I got some bad news over the weekend. A friend passed away.”

  “Oh. No wonder you were in such a bad mood earlier. I’m very sorry.”

  “Me too,” I say. “Actually, I need to go. I have to…see his mom.” Really, I’ve just concluded that I cannot wait until one o’clock. I don’t care if it offends the local society and their ridiculous bureaucrats. I came for answers. I came for Clive. I did not come to this hellhole of sunshine to sit in a library and wait.

  Miriam stands. “I completely understand.” She digs into her desk drawer and hands me a card. “My email address is there, and if you think of any questions, just call.”

  “Thank you.” I take the card and slide it into my coat pocket.

  She holds out her hand. “This time you can shake it.” Her cupid bow lips curve into a smile, and I notice how even that is lopsided.

  She is quite cute. And despite my foul mood, I’ve enjoyed my little chat with the quirky young librarian. She has brightened my day.

  I shake her hand, and she reminds me once again to send her my résumé.

  “Of course. As soon as I can,” I reply.

  She walks me through the library, managing not to bump into anything this time.

  “Thank you again, Miriam,” I say once we’re at the
front door.

  “Oh, I didn’t actually catch your full name.”

  “Michael Vanderhorst.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mike. Or do you prefer Michael?”

  “I’m cool with either,” I say to fit my age, but really I like Michael. “See ya.” I offer her a smile and head out to my rental parked across the street, down a block. The fury inside me has silently welled, and as much experience as I have holding my tongue, I know I’m going to do something unwise today. I can feel trouble brewing in the air.

  Or is that just the danger-magnet librarian I’m sensing?

  CHAPTER THREE

  I sit in my rental, an enormous black SUV that lacks the sophisticated comfort of my silver Jaguar convertible back home. For summer, I like to drive my Mercedes G-Class with tinted windows. I’m a gentleman, not a snob, but a vampire my age doesn’t have many things to get excited over, and comfort is one of them.

  So is not dealing with bullcrap. I hit CALL on my cell phone, intending to give the local society a piece of my mind. I am not a man without influence or resources. I simply choose my battles carefully, something I learned the hard way in my youth.

  “The Arizona Society of Sunshine Love. How may I help you?”

  Every society must answer the phone with their legitimate legal title, and yes, theirs is actually the Arizona Society of Sunshine Love—a testament to their ridiculousness.

  “I’m calling for Lamashtu,” I say. It’s a code we all use to signal we’re one of them. Lamashtu was the Mesopotamian demon goddess who stole babies from their mothers and sucked their blood. Yes, this is an example of vampire humor. No one in their right mind would suck on a baby. It’s simply wrong.

  “And how may I direct your call?” she says politely.

  “This is Michael Vanderhorst. I have an appointment this afternoon at one o’clock with…” I pause, realizing I don’t actually know.

  “With Mr. Aspen, the head of our society.”

  “Yes. I believe so,” I say.

  “Is there a problem, sir? Do you need to reschedule?” she asks.

  “No. And yes.” This is the ideal moment to deploy my gentlemanly behavior. “I am hoping Mr. Aspen can see me now.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not available this morning. One o’clock is the earliest.”

  “Is there someone else I could impose upon? Clive Bakker was very important to me, and I’m afraid the issue concerning him cannot wait.” We can never be too careful in this day and age of government spying and hacking, so no vampire ever speaks plainly over the phone. We get by, regardless.

  “I see, Mr. Vanderhorst, but I’m very sorry. There is no one else available or knowledgeable enough on the matter pertaining to your friend. You must wait for Mr. Aspen.”

  I decide to take one glove off, though the glove is a pristine white and will not leave a mark once I slap it across her face.

  “Such a shame that Mr. Aspen is so busy,” I say. “The Cincinnati Historical Society of Original Family Members, myself now being the oldest member, is very concerned about the topic of Clive Bakker.”

  Translated, this means that our damned coven is older than their damned coven, and now I am the leader of my society in Clive’s absence. With my age, I am far more powerful than some one-hundred-year-old group of ridiculous masochists who choose to live in the least habitable state in the country. In addition, our numbers are ten times theirs with vampires five times older.

  As I said, one glove off. No marks. I know better than to start a dispute, especially when I’m in their territory.

  “Oh. I-I see, Mr. Vanderholt.”

  “Vanderhorst,” I correct.

  “Yes, sir. Please hold.”

  Music plays over the phone, and it’s “Girl from Ipanema.” Garish morons.

  I flip down the driver’s side visor in my SUV to check my appearance. It’s so damned sunny now that I’m sure my hair will catch on fire before noon hits. How do vampires live like this?

  I remove my blazer, carefully fold it lengthwise, and place it on the passenger seat.

  When I lift my head, a jerky movement on the sidewalk one block down catches my attention. I have excellent vision, so there’s no mistaking the scene playing out. A fight. It’s a couple. I couldn’t care less, except that the large man isn’t playing nice.

  Is that…

  “Miriam.” I grip the steering wheel as the man strikes her with a closed fist and she falls to the ground.

  “Seriously?” It’s the middle of the day. What breed of nitwit hits a woman in broad daylight?

  Wait. Back up. Not what I intended to say.

  What I mean is that as a vampire, there is a time and place for dirty business. A busy sidewalk on a major street during morning traffic is not that place. Regardless, there is never a reason to hit a woman. All right, some women yes, however, the ones I’m referring to are horrible monsters that would sooner rip out your throat as they would your gonads. A woman like Miriam, however…

  “Mr. Vanderhorst?” the woman says, coming back on the line. “I have Mr. Aspen on the phone—”

  I hit END CALL and push open my door. I ball my fists and then stretch out my fingers—one, two, three—repeating the action ten times in quick succession. This is a reminder to take a breath. I must think of the consequences before I take action.

  I close my eyes tightly. Think, Michael. Think. Killing a human in another’s territory is an act of war. There are rules and protocols, and violating them means that innocent lives could be lost. I am the leader of my society now, and though it’s a role I never expected or wanted, I cannot change the facts. With Clive’s death, I rule. No. I don’t mean that in the catchy sense.

  My fist closes tightly one final time, and I open my eyes. In the one second it’s taken me to hang up on Mr. Aspen, exit my vehicle, and have an internal debate, this male has Miriam by the front of her hideous brown sweater with his fist cocked for a second blow.

  For me, moments like these unfold in slow motion, but even I am not fast enough to stop this barbarian from striking.

  I run toward them as a crack ricochets in my ears, and she falls to the sidewalk. My rage gets the best of me.

  I reach them as the man moves to hit her once more, and after that, it’s a blur. Daylight means witnesses are present, so I am aware enough to drag the man around to the back of the building before drinking the unworthy life out of him. I suck him dry in seven seconds flat, knowing that my fury is partially fueled by Clive’s death.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and breathe in the warm air mixed with the delicious scent of blood.

  I haven’t killed in decades, but it feels damned good.

  “Someone call 911!” a woman yells off in the distance, and I notice the sound of screeching brakes.

  I shake my head and look down at the sad excuse of a man I’ve killed. I do not know whether to feel sorrier for him or myself.

  No time for reflection. I throw him in a nearby dumpster, planning to return later to dispose of him properly, and rush back to Miriam. She’s limp on the sidewalk, barely breathing, and her color is pale.

  “Miriam?” I listen to her heart and lungs, which both sound labored, similar to that moment just before a person dies in my arms.

  I stare at her angelic face—the delicate eyelashes, the porcelain skin of her long neck, the soft point of her chin. Every feature is that of a fragile creature meant to be cared for. Which begs the question: why would she date such a savage? She seems smarter than that.

  Just then, I hear sirens approaching, and several drivers are jumping from their vehicles to assist.

  This is my cue to recede into the shadows—all right this is hellish Arizona. There aren’t any shadows. Nevertheless, I will have to check on her later, but I cannot be part of the police report.

  I fade into the backdrop, hoping no one finds the body in the dumpster before I have a chance to dispose of it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It takes the
better part of an hour to calm myself from the wrath stirring inside me after having watched that cheese steak in a human suit beat the kind librarian to the ground.

  I’ve called the ER and already know they’re not going to tell me anything over the phone, so I’ll have to go in person as soon as I’ve dealt with this other terrible matter: Clive.

  “Hell.” I sip my second coffee of the morning, realizing they didn’t add the extra shots like I requested. How much worse can this day become?

  I step from my SUV and head toward the nondescript brick building with only a number over the mirrored front door. I check my phone and the address. This has to be the place.

  I enter to find a quiet waiting room with a shiny white tile floor and one of those flat glass fountains trickling down one of the walls. There’s a solid-looking door leading inside and an intercom next to it.

  So much white. Easier to clean blood. The faint scent of bleach in the air tells me they’ve done so recently.

  I push the intercom button but know they spotted me the moment I stepped foot in the empty parking lot that’s meant to give the illusion of nobody’s home.

  They’re home. I can smell them.

  I busy myself with my phone while I wait for someone to answer. After a minute, I hear the voice of the woman who answered the phone earlier. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Vanderhorst to see Mr. Aspen,” I say.

  “We weren’t expecting you this morning, sir.”

  Yeah, well, I need to get out of town as quickly as possible. I shouldn’t have bitten that man. There were five different ways to kill him, but I just had to choose the only one that leaves a vampire calling card.

  I simply hadn’t been able to help myself. Even now, the image of that barbarian—his large fist cracking Miriam right in her temple and the sound of her small body hitting the sidewalk—it makes me want to kill him all over again.

  Only this time, much slower. Still, I know better than to have acted so hastily. I am ancient.