Wait Till Your Vampire Gets Home

by Michele Bardsley

  I couldn’t even speak. I stared at Stan, and he looked down at the floor, his face going scarlet. I knew then he didn’t believe I’d done anything wrong. But he was beholden to these vampires. I knew his loyalty belonged to them.

  The faint clang of the hallway door opening and closing had my heart thumping in earnest. Fear was a live thing squirming inside me as I listened to booted feet thudding toward us. The jailers had come to tell me my appeal had been denied. Hah. Stan glanced at me, sympathy in his hound-dog gaze.

  Patrick’s twin, Lorcan, arrived. I assumed it was Lorcan because, while he looked pissed off, he didn’t look poisoned. Plus, his outline was purple. Patrick’s was blue.

  A tall man with muscles on his muscles took position on the left side of Stan. He was dressed in black leather pants and matching vest. Ugh. Animal flesh. His feet were encased in black biker boots with silver buckles. He had jade green eyes and the face of a GQ model. His long black hair was pulled into a ponytail. Hostile didn’t begin to describe his attitude toward me. He was outlined in red.

  “Did she tell you what she did?” he asked. His accent was German. He looked like he could break me in half. Worse, he looked like he wanted to. I shuddered.

  Stan shook his head. “Whatever she did, I don’t believe she did it on purpose.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Lorcan’s voice was thick with Irish. “If her poison kills me brother, then darlin’ Jessica dies, too.”

  “Jessica?” I vaguely remembered the name, but couldn’t connect it to anyone I’d met so far. I backed away, but there was nowhere to go. If they opened that door, they could easily capture and subdue me. “I didn’t even touch her!”

  “Jessica is Patrick’s wife,” said Stan. “They’re bound. Bound vampires are connected body, mind, and soul. If Patrick dies . . . so does she.”

  “I tried to help him! I swear the only thing I gave Patrick was my blood.” My gaze collided with Stan’s as we both reached the same conclusion. “Do you think my blood poisoned him?”

  He frowned. “I don’t see how . . . unless you ingested something on purpose. Something that wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Use your big brain, Stan! What could I take that would hurt the freaking undead, but leave me alive? Aren’t vampires indestructible?”

  “We can be killed,” said Lorcan.

  “By sunlight and . . . and beheading. That’s what Ralph told me.” My mind raced, trying to piece together information I’d learned inadvertently. There was something else that could kill vampires, too. “Patsy said Tainted vampires were sick. Do they get the Taint from humans?” My eyes went wide. “Do . . . do I have that? Oh my God! Stan, do I have the Taint?”

  “No. Humans can’t get the Taint. And that’s not what is harming Patrick.”

  The big guy with the green eyes and the assassin smile looked me over. “We may have jumped to conclusions. How quickly can you test her blood?”

  Stanley shrugged. “I should be able to test it against known substances fairly quickly.”

  “This has something to do with the dragon,” I muttered. “She changed me, didn’t she? And my blood . . .” My next thought had my heart climbing into my throat. “Am I still human?”

  “We’ll await the results,” said Lorcan, “before we make any decisions.”

  I knew my fate hung in the pudgy hands of Dr. Archibald Stanley Michaels. He knew it, too. And he couldn’t meet my gaze.

  They all turned to go.

  “Wait!”

  Only Stanley paused. He looked over his shoulder as his companions continued down the hallway.

  “Please let me out,” I said. “I’ll stay with you in the lab and help—just like I used to.”

  He smiled sadly. “I have plenty of lab assistants, Libby. And none of them have ever spilled hydrochloric acid on my Bigfoot specimens.”

  Ouch. The acid had eaten through the hair samples, including the follicles with skin tags. We’d been this close to getting a DNA sample, and I tipped over the wrong bottle. “Please, Stanley. Get me out of here.”

  “I can’t.”

  He turned to go, and I watched him get swallowed by the darkness. I couldn’t see far enough down the hall to view the door. But I heard it open. And close.

  I smacked the wall in frustration. They couldn’t keep me here.

  Not forever.

  I had a fitful sleep and awoke, I assume, sometime during the day. All the vampires were snug in their coffins while their pet wolves prowled the town. Okay. That was a petty thought, and I didn’t like being petty, even if it was deserved. I believed in karma, although I had no idea what I had done in this life or any other to get imprisoned and accused of attempted murder.

  I wondered how Patrick was doing. I couldn’t bear the thought of him dying. Or anyone dying, especially as the result of something I had done.

  Breakfast was eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice. I drank the juice and ate the toast. I wanted badly to eat the bacon, too. Meat was nearly an aphrodisiac. I stopped just shy of licking it.

  Stan knew I was vegan. Maybe he hadn’t adjusted the meals as another way to torment me on behalf of his new masters.

  Resentment was a thorn piercing my conscience. I needed to stop thinking such negative thoughts.

  I filled the hours doing yoga, meditation, and mantras. I practiced pranayama breathing techniques and incorporated a few mudras, which were spiritual gestures made with the hands. Afterward, I felt much better.

  I took a very long, hot shower. I washed my panties in the sink and left them to dry on the towel rack. I wandered around in the nude while my underwear dried. I wondered who was monitoring me. Probably some sort of machine Stan had dreamed up. Maybe Mr. Roboto was more than just a voice.

  Lunch was potato leek soup, sourdough bread, and iced tea. I was starving, but my first spoonful of soup revealed tiny bits of sausage.

  Yum. I mean yuck.

  Man, I was on the near equivalent of bread and water.

  When my underwear dried, I put it on and then I donned the pajamas. I took a short nap. Then I did yoga again. I had no way to tell time, but I knew it must be close to evening.

  An hour, maybe two passed. Mr. Roboto wouldn’t talk to me anymore. At this point, I’d settle for chatting with Melvin. Was he still hanging around? Or had he gotten bored and flown off to haunt someone else?

  No one visited. Not even Ralph. But why would he? Could I blame him for putting his sons’ welfare over mine? They had already lost their mother. It must’ve been really hard for Ralph to raise his babies alone. Now, he was doing it undead.

  The panel in the wall that delivered my meals popped open and the tray slid out. There was a white bag, a large Styrofoam cup, and a folded note. And, thank the heavens, a copy of Reader’s Digest and of People.

  I removed all the items. I opened the note first.

  Libby,

  I made you a veggie burger with lettuce, tomato, and onion. Condiments on the side. (Is mayo a “by-product”? ) Extra-large fries. Your chocolate shake is made with almond milk.

  Ralph

  I opened the bag. The burger smelled heavenly. I loaded on ketchup and mustard because yes, mayonnaise was on my animal by-product list, and devoured it along with the fries. Hmm-mmm. The chocolate shake was perfection.

  It was also drugged.

  When I awoke, I was strapped to a metal table. A man in surgical clothing, his face masked, bent over me. His gloved hands held a nasty-looking instrument. A big, bright light shone above me. I couldn’t make out anything else in the room.

  I wanted to scream, but my mouth wasn’t working. My only solace was that he was putting the tool away. Fear pulsed through me, a cold, dull throb that barely penetrated my drug-numbed senses.

  He seemed surprised to see me awake. I recognized him behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Stan. My lips formed his name, but there was no sound.

  His betrayal wounded me. I knew, somewhere beyond where the drugs could reach, that the
man standing above me so liberally experimenting on my person would pay for what he was doing.

  We must’ve been alone. I was grateful for that, at least.

  BOOM! What the hell was that? The reverberations knocked Stan to the floor. The whole place shook and the big light swung wildly.

  I struggled to free myself, but the straps kept my wrists and ankles bound tightly. I couldn’t be sure I was moving at all; perhaps my mind only made it seem like I was trying to escape.

  Stan gripped the edge of the operating table and pulled himself to his feet. He ripped off his paper cap and mask.

  “Libby!” he yelled.

  Another explosion stole the rest of his words. Panic clawed at me. I was trapped. Stan would leave me. The room would cave in.

  I would die.

  I turned wide eyes to Stanley, knowing my terror showed in my gaze. He pulled off the wires stuck to my chest and removed the IV in my right arm. Then he grappled with the straps on my wrists. He freed my arms, then moved to unbuckle my ankles. Shakily, I rose on my elbows. The sheet covering me slid off, and I realized I was naked underneath it.

  Here it was, the end of the world, and I was gonna meet my Maker in my birthday suit. Perfect.

  Stanley got my left leg free, but he was Mr. Fumble Fingers as he tried to remove the strap binding my right ankle.

  BOOM! BOOM! The terrifying noises erupted right above us. The light flickered and chunks of the ceiling crashed around us. Stanley ripped at the buckles.

  “Just go!” I screamed. My voice was scratchy and weak, but he heard me.

  “No,” he said. “I won’t leave you.”

  The strap loosened and I pulled my leg out. He looked at me, triumphant. An ominous crack sounded above, and then the ceiling gave way.

  Stan didn’t have time to move.

  He was buried instantly.

  Chapter 11

  “Stan!” I screamed. My mind was still foggy, but the tender hold of the drugs slipped away. I felt terrible; my mouth tasted like metal.

  I got off the table, my feet stabbed by broken glass and concrete shards. My legs folded, and I grabbed the table for support. Unbelievably, the light only dropped a couple of feet; it was still on, too.

  I lowered myself to the floor and crawled to Stan. Shards pierced my palms and knees, but the pain was dulled. Sweat dripped off my temples and rolled down my neck. The acrid smell of smoke singed my nostrils. It was familiar, that scent. Like home. Like family.

  I kept moving, thinking only of getting to Stan. I needed to save him, so I could strangle him later.

  My heart dropped when I saw Stan’s pale hand sticking out from the rocks.

  Seeing my old friend, my uncle Archie, buried by debris swept aside my anger about his actions. I could browbeat him later, if he lived to hear my harangue. I wasn’t leaving him in the rubble. I flung away rock after rock.

  “Stan? I’m getting you out,” I said. “Keep breathing. Please, just keep breathing.”

  The noise and explosions stopped. What had blown up the building? A gas leak? A nuclear missile? A werewolf having a bad day?

  I cocked my head. I heard fire singing. It was far away, but I heard it all the same. The song was different than the others I’d heard before. It called to me. It seduced me.

  But I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t leave Stan.

  I uncovered Stan’s legs and torso. Dread pounded through me. His injuries looked bad. One leg was bent at an impossible angle, and he had several broken ribs. Blood stained his clothes and seeped from jagged wounds.

  I kept digging, and refused to consider that Stan wasn’t alive. Whatever drug I’d been given made me feel like I’d imbibed too many Venti Mochas, and that made me think about Starbucks. What I wouldn’t give for a Raspberry White Chocolate Mocha, with soy milk and no whip.

  Vaguely, I wondered where everyone was. I mean, surely they knew Stan had been going all Dr. Frankenstein on me. An unearthly stillness settled over us. The space above was completely dark, but even so, I realized it was another room. I think the prison and lab were located under the queen’s mansion, basement level. Were we still there? Or had I been moved to somewhere else? Maybe everyone had evacuated. Or maybe they were dead.

  No, I wouldn’t think that way.

  I lifted the final concrete chunk from Stan’s body and threw it. It banged against the wall, and I flinched at the harsh sound.

  The green outline around Stan was dimming and I didn’t want to see it fade away. “C’mon, Stan! Stay with me.”

  The light was flickering, and I figured it would go out soon. It was just as well. The yellow beam revealed the wide, unseeing stare of my old friend. His glasses had somehow remained on his face, but the lenses were cracked.

  “No,” I said, shaking my finger at him. “You’re not dead. Do you hear me? You’re. Not. Dead.”

  I looked down and realized I was still naked, and sweaty and dusty, and just a little bit out of my mind. I tugged the sheet from the debris-strewn table and made a suitable toga with it. Then I got behind Stanley and lifted him by his shoulders. I dragged him from the rocks as gently as I could. He was heavy, and moving him was like trying to move a two-hundred-pound bag of rice.

  Behind me, the weak beam of the downed light revealed a door. I headed toward it with my precious cargo. I only laid down my burden long enough to pull the handle.

  It was locked.

  I yanked and yanked, but the goddamned door wouldn’t open. I screamed and pounded on the metal until my voice went hoarse and my hands went numb.

  Exhausted, I pulled Stan to the corner and collapsed next to him. That was the moment the light blinked out. Darkness blanketed the entire room. I stroked Stan’s forehead and promised him everything would be okay. This was a lie, of course. But Stan didn’t appear to care.

  I drifted in and out of consciousness. Then, from far away, I heard a familiar voice.

  “Libby!”

  “Here,” I croaked; my throat sore. “Here!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ralph on the other side of the door. “We’ll get you out.”

  “Hurry,” I said. “Stan is really hurt.”

  “Move out of the way!” yelled a fierce female voice.

  The door burst off its hinges and flew across the room. I blinked as bobbing lights headed in my direction. I realized several people had filed into the room, and they held flashlights. One was a short, stacked redhead who marched toward us with fire in her eyes.

  “He’s not dead,” she told me matter-of-factly. She knelt next to Stan and rubbed the bald spot on his head. “He’ll be just fine.”

  “Linda,” said another, softer Irish voice. I made out the tall shape of a woman. Her skin glimmered strangely. “We must help Libby. Stanley is—”

  “Fine. Stanley is fine.” Linda scooped Stan into her arms and lifted him as if he weighed no more than air. “Brigid, as soon as you’re done tending to the girl, you come and fix up my man.”

  Then she stomped out of the room.

  Ralph sat down next to me. His blue eyes were filled with relief. His fingers swept my hair back from my forehead.

  I felt so relieved to be alive. “What’s going on? Is Stan . . . oh, God!”

  Ralph’s response was unexpected. He kissed me. Talk about bad timing. His lips were warm and soft and tasted like cinnamon. Heat spread through my body. It was like we shared the fire again, and I reveled in that feeling.

  I clutched at his shirt and let the tears flow. Gently, he moved back and wiped off my gritty cheeks. I looked like hell and probably tasted like asphalt, and he planted one on me anyway.

  The sparkly woman knelt next to me. Her diaphanous gown was green and showed off her lithe frame. “My name is Brigid. I’m a healer, and I can help you.”

  I studied her, feeling tired and scared. Glittery gold symbols on her skin swirled and changed patterns. “Those are some crazy tattoos.”

  “My magic knows what you need.” Okay. That made no sense, b
ut what was new? Nothing in Broken Heart made sense. Brigid put her cool, soothing palm against my forehead. “Sleep well, Libby.”

  That was the last thing I remembered.

  I awoke in darkness. The bed underneath me was really comfortable and the sheets were so soft I felt wrapped in clouds. Huh. I must’ve gotten an upgraded prison cell.

  Yay me.

  I was really tired of getting knocked out and waking up in strange places. Seriously. What was wrong with these people?

  I stretched, relieved I was dressed in pajamas. These fit me better, too. Overall, I felt good. My body didn’t hurt at all, and the buzzing headache that had plagued me when I awoke on Stan’s surgical table was completely gone. Whatever Brigid the Glitter Girl had done, it was miraculous.

  I tried not to think about Stan, but how could I not? He was dead. I was sorry, too, even though he’d been experimenting on me. And he didn’t exactly stop his new pals from treating me so poorly. I had lots of reasons to be mad at Stan, but I didn’t want him dead.

  And what about Patrick? Surely they’d figured out I wasn’t responsible for his sickness. Without Stan to do the testing, how would I be proven innocent? I could only hope Patrick was already recovering.

  “Lights on, fifty percent,” I muttered to Mr. Roboto.

  Nothing happened.

  “Lights on, fifty percent,” I said louder.

  “You have to flip the switch,” said Ralph’s amused voice.

  “Aaaaahhh!” I sat up and pulled the covers over my head, which was stupid. How was a comforter going to shield me from anything?

  A light snapped on as I cautiously lowered the bedspread. Ralph stood in the doorway looking at me, his blue eyes filled with apprehension.

  “And I thought I slept like the dead,” he said.

  “Oh, hah.” I was nervous. This was not a prison; this was someone’s bedroom.

  “Mine,” he said, answering the question before I could ask it. “I took responsibility for you.”

  “They wanted to throw me back in the clink, didn’t they?”

  “We have to protect ourselves,” he defended.