by Tamsin Baker
The entry covered almost three pages in her dense, neat handwriting. She expected to live another twelve to eighteen months. She hadn’t said a word, and kept a diagnosis of an inoperable brain tumor to herself. My body collapsed into itself as my chest tightened and fresh waves of grief slammed into me with a vengeance. It was several minutes before I could face the journal again. When I did, I kept a tissue to my face to ensure I didn’t drip tears onto any of the pages.
She wrote about meeting her attorney to make sure her will reflected her final wishes, and about writing to me to tell me why she’d chosen me to inherit and inviting me to visit with her soon.
But I hadn’t received a letter. The first I knew about my inheritance was when the lawyer had contacted me, and if he knew about Tilly writing to me, he hadn’t said anything.
The entry concluded with a few paragraphs about how she hoped I accepted the Thompson family baton and thrived in our shared legacy. Our shared legacy? What the hell did that mean? I pulled out all the journals and found the oldest entry, written fifty-three years ago when Tilly was just twenty. She wrote differently then, full of excitement, enthusiasm, a yearning to embrace her destiny.
Snuggles head-butted my hip and let out a hungry meow. My stomach rumbled, gurgled and squeaked in sympathy. I glanced at my watch. Somehow, I’d read for hours and missed both lunch and dinner.
I scrunched his head and scooped him into my arms. “She called herself a dhampir.” Snuggles made a willing listener, as long as I kept him in salmon. I kept up the ear tickling as we descended the stairs. “It’s hard to believe, bubs. Tilly believed she was the daughter of a male vampire and a female witch, and she traced her ancestry back at least five generations of witchery. My father was Tilly’s much younger brother.” I jolted to a sudden stop halfway down. Snuggles wriggled but I hung on to him. “Dad could be a dhampir too. Maybe me as well. Do you think Ben is right and that’s why she picked me to inherit her house?”
Snuggles mewled. Dhampir, vampire, witch or plain human, he just wanted his salmon.
After feeding Snuggles and making tea and toast for myself, I grabbed all the journals and took them upstairs to my bedroom. The curtains were open to the early evening sky, the moon still glimmering behind light, wispy clouds. No one stood at the bottom of the garden. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and drew the curtains shut.
Snuggles turned circles until he found the most comfortable spot next to my stomach and I settled against the pillows on my bed.
“What do you think we’ll find in here?” I petted his head and I opened the journal on the top of the pile. “Perhaps Tilly did believe in vampires. Maybe I am a dhampir, a vampire hunter destined to join Ben in the chase.” I couldn’t help guffawing. Me, a hunter? Just too preposterous.
Chapter Four
Sunday morning already. I stood at the end of the huge pantry with coffee in one hand and my other fingers resting on the handle that opened the door to the basement. My eyes burned from reading too late last night. I’d read Tilly’s journals, flipping back and forth from the earliest to the latest entries, until words swam on the page.
The basement housed all her tools. Her arsenal, she’d called it. The journals read like a novel, or perhaps research for a series of novels, or maybe Tilly believed it—some of it, at least.
My brow creased as I tried to remember any evidence that she practiced witchcraft. Nope. Nothing. I rested my forehead against the door jamb. What else didn’t I know about my great aunt? We’d shared an interest in literature and research, we’d hiked and gardened together. We’d talked late into many a night. I thought I knew her as well as anyone I’d ever met. But obviously not.
Apart from an occasional present or card, I hadn’t heard from my father since my parents divorced almost ten years ago. He’d never talked about his older sister—Tilly—unless it was to poo-poo her scholarly research. Besides, I’d no idea where he might be. Mother drifted through a Wiccan phase, but too interested in my school life and dancing, I’d hardly paid attention. I couldn’t phone her. A keen anthropologist, she was studying the Kazakh eagle hunters of the Altai Mountains in Mongolia with no internet or mobile coverage.
I finished my coffee, cast a glance across the empty shelves in the pantry and bent to pet Snuggles. “We need to do a decent grocery shop, baby boy. And I’ll email Mom later, she’ll see it when she goes back to the capital for supplies.” Good grief. How was I supposed to start that message? ‘Dear Mom, did you by any chance marry a vampire or vampire heir, and by the way, are you a witch, or descended from one?’ I might have to play around with the wording for a while before hitting send.
Snuggles meowed and scratched at the basement door. Probably assorted rodents down there he wanted to corner. Perhaps damp, mold, mildew and other nasties as well. It was an old house, after all. My stomach knotted. Maybe I should call Ben and ask him to accompany me.
I blew out a sigh. No way.
I set my watch to remind me about meeting Imogen Williams for coffee at eleven. I gave myself an hour to get ready and drive into the town center. Plenty of time. Though if the well-groomed Ms. Williams expected to see me in my Sunday best, she was heading for disappointment.
“Get your big girl panties on,” I muttered to myself as Snuggles seemed bent on ignoring me. “If there is a rat down there.” I petted his back as he head butted my ankles. “I expect you to protect me.”
I took a deep breath and yanked the door open. Snuggles sprinted down the stairs, into the gloom. So much for protecting me. I flicked the light on and descended, the cold biting deeper with each step. The stairs were solid, and the handrail felt firm under my hand. At the bottom of the stairs another bulb flooded the entire room in bright, yellow light. With breaths hitching in my chest I paced to a metal workbench in the center of the room and circled slowly.
Sweet heavens above.
I'd expected a basement that matched the Victorian house above. Instead, a polished cement floor and stainless steel cabinets gleamed in the light.
Weapons hung across one wall. The entire wall! Shelving and drawers covered another wall. A huge kitchen unit stood against the wall opposite the stairs. That’s where I paced first. Herbs and crystals filled small drawers, a well-used mortar and pestle stood next to a set of glass mixing bowls. Here was evidence of potion making, if not witchcraft. She’d never mentioned that either, though her notes referred to her grimoire. If her secret spells were anywhere, that’s where they would be. I worked my way around the room until I came to the weapons. A crossbow, silver tipped arrows, two large knives, and two serious-looking guns and a smaller one. Several types of cartridges sat in a labeled drawer. Tilly had kept her arsenal as meticulous as her notes.
It didn’t mean anything. I fidgeted with the cartridges. A loud, critical, inner voice told me to stop being so gullible. It was probably part of the research. For her novel. That would explain it.
The alarm on my watch beeped a reminder.
From the opposite corner where he’d been sniffing intently, Snuggles raced across the floor and jumped onto the counter in front of me. Back arched, his fur stood upright. The lights flickered, and every horror movie I’d ever seen flashed into my head and my breath hitched in my chest.
A narrow door I’d assumed to be a closet opened. I sucked in a breath, grabbed the sturdiest knife, unsheathed it, and held it at my waist. My education had been sorely lacking, I’d absolutely no idea how to use the damn thing effectively.
Nic Gravier, as smolderingly attractive as ever in a fitted shirt and dark jeans, stepped through the door with a smile that managed to be sexy as hell and give off an air of danger at the same time. “Fancy meeting you here."
Snuggles bared his fangs and hissed.
"I live here." My voice quivered and my hand trembled, but I kept a tight grip on the knife. "How the hell did you get in? Were you hiding in the closet?"
“The what?" Confusion crossed his face for a moment, then he
laughed and pointed at the door. "It's the underground tunnel.”
If I didn't have one hand gripping the counter, and the other gripping the knife, I would've slapped my palm into my forehead and added a theatrical groan for good measure. No more surprises. That’s all I asked.
With a tightening throat, I held his gaze. His shirt was open at the neck and gave me a glimpse of seductive muscles. The sleeves, rolled to his elbows, revealed firm and toned forearms. His eyes brightened until it almost hurt to look into them. Childish maybe, but I refused to look away.
He cast his gaze to the floor first. Blinking away moisture, I forced myself to focus and tried to ignore the waves of attraction, or perhaps lust, that tingled across my skin. The tunnel, the one that ran between the Gravier Mansion and Aunt Tilly’s basement—my basement—that’s what we were talking about.
“What tunnel?” Unread journals still sat on my bedside table, but nothing I’d read so far mentioned any tunnel from this basement to anywhere else. Nic had yet to respond, so I repeated the question through a clenched jaw. “What tunnel?”
“Didn't Tilly tell you about—”
“Clearly, I'm missing a lot of information here." I couldn't rein in the sarcastic tone.
“Ah.” He scratched his head. “Her death did take us by surprise." His gaze softened and he reached for me. “Perhaps I can help."
“Keep your hands up." I waved the knife in what I hoped was a threatening manner. “The tunnel?"
“It was dug out over one hundred and fifty years ago, not long after your great-great-grandmother built this house.” He shrugged and gave me one of his disarming smiles. "It hints at a relationship between our two families that goes back several generations." He circled his hands to take in the entire basement, his gaze lingering across the wall of weapons. “Impressive, isn't it?"
My brain seemed to be slushing through goopy mud. I was still digesting the relevance of a tunnel between Tilly’s house and the Gravier Mansion. The door wasn’t locked or blocked. That had to mean Tilly welcomed Nic, and maybe other members of the Gravier family into her basement.
“We don't need to be enemies, Louisa." Nic took a step towards me. “Let's return the knife to the drawer.”
Snuggles flew at him with claws outstretched and drew blood across Nic’s forearm. Open-mouthed I watched crimson globules drip onto the floor, each one shimmering like a ruby in the golden light. He raised his arm, our gazes connected and he slowly licked the blood from the scratch. He even licked a drying trail of blood that circled his arm.
I cleared my throat to distract myself from an unexpected tightening in my lady bits.
Snuggles leapt onto a shelf above my head and steadied himself, as if ready to pounce.
The bleeding stopped, Nic shrugged and jammed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Cats never like me.”
“He’s normally friendly.” I lifted my brows. “The sheriff calls you dangerous. Perhaps Snuggles agrees with the sentiment.”
A full-lipped, impish grin turned him into a drop-dead gorgeous hunk. Gorgeous, but with a “don’t trifle with me” edge. He leaned back against the counter, his stance casual, one ankle crossed over the other. “Perhaps, but no more so than you."
A fluttery sensation started in my chest and lodged in my stomach. I circled my finger around my neckline. Either someone switched the heating up a notch, or it was just me. Wait, if I was a vampire hunter, and Nic was dangerous to me, was he a vampire? I shouldn’t have read so late into the night. My imagination was doing crazy things.
I tossed the knife in the drawer, settled next to Nic against the counter and rubbed my hands across my face. “I’m just an average English Lit teacher. I have no idea what’s going on.”
His laughter—almost a purr, gently amused and yet still so commandingly masculine—flicked a switch deep inside the part of my brain that operated on pure instinct. I stepped closer to him, lips turned up, my jaw angling up towards his. His scent swirled around me, citrus, woody and earthy. A ginger-spiked a cocktail of mandarin and lime, with a hint of rosemary that was grounded in earthy patchouli and musk.
“Never average, and you are so much more.” Nic stroked the back of his fingers across my cheek, his hand cool against my heating skin. “You will work it out with my help, if you will accept me.” He lifted my chin to focus his cerulean gaze into my eyes. “And when you do, we will make a formidable team.”
When, not if. Accept him, not just his help. I creased my brow at his choice of words, but with his body so close and his intent gaze locked on mine, thinking straight wasn’t high on my priorities. He brushed his lips against my mouth, lingering for just the briefest moment. When he pulled away, his long hair feathered against my face like a teasing caress. I could have stopped it then. He was obviously letting me take the lead, pulling back or diving in. I should have stopped. I never kissed almost-strangers, not even on New Year’s Eve.
But I didn’t want to stop. A frisson of excitement quivered through my body. Why not kiss the man? I wanted to. I wanted the whole package—his feathery soft, long, dark hair, his dramatic, good looks and enticing, toned body, even his chilling charisma. It's not like I'd fallen in love at first sight. I’m way too old and experienced for that. But insta-lust, now that I could believe in. I hugged my arms around the back of his neck to pull him closer. His eyes brightened again before he curled his hand around my neck. He lowered his head slowly and covered my mouth with a firm, assertive kiss. I parted my lips and he snaked his tongue between them.
He’d taken a master class in kissing. That was the only explanation. If anyone ever bottled pure pleasure, added a hint of sin and a whole lot of hedonistic mastery, this is how it would taste. Mysterious, intoxicating, and impossible to resist.
He slid his hands along my arms. The barest touch left goose bumps behind where his fingertips had sent delicious tingles through me. An unmistakable thrumming started deep inside, and my pulse sped as my throat dried. I pulled him closer and tangled my hands in his hair. My reaction to him baffled me, but I didn’t care. I craved his embrace, no matter the hint of danger that hung around him, or the fact we’d barely met.
His lips were cool, full but firm, and our tongues twined together as if we’d known and bedded one another all our lives. My nerve endings flared with sensation, my knees almost gave way and he cupped one hand under my bum to steady me.
Too quickly he pulled his lips away, but his hard body still pressed against the length of my torso.
“An alarm sounded when I arrived. I am interrupting something.” He wasn’t even slightly out of breath, whereas I gulped for air like a drowning woman.
“Nothing important.” Whatever it was could wait. What could possibly be more important than continuing what we’d started? I caressed the side of his throat. Still cool, even though I could self-combust.
He let out a groan. “Such a wonderful touch, mon ange.” He clasped my fingers and pressed my hand to his skin. “So much to look forward to. But, I’m sure you didn’t set that alarm to remind you it’s time for brunch.”
Brunch. I pulled back from him and glanced at my watch. “Damn. I’m meeting Imogen Williams for coffee in forty-five minutes.”
“Ah. Imogen.” He lifted his brow for a second.
“You know her.”
“Of course. Everyone in Dogwood Grove does. I will leave you now, but we will catch up again soon.” He kissed my hand like he had on Friday night. “Enjoy your chat. An alliance with her would be beneficial.”
“Wait. I have a thousand questions—”
“You know where I am. Call on me later.” He glided from the room as elegantly as he’d arrived.
For a few seconds, I stared at the door to the secret tunnel.
What the hell had just happened? I might have ravaged him here on the floor if he hadn’t stopped to remind me of the alarm I’d set. My angel. He’d called me my angel in French.
Snuggles jumped to the countertop and head-butted my chest.
I gathered him into my arms and he kneaded his front paws against me. The familiar action dragged me from my dreamy imagination. The cool air sent shivers across my skin. It was unbelievable that I could have self-combusted only moments ago.
“There is nothing wrong with kissing a man in my basement, is there?” Hair prickled on the back of my neck. I spun around, half expecting Nic to reappear. But the basement was empty, except for myself and Snuggles.
I climbed the stairs to the pantry with Snuggles still encased in my arms. In the kitchen he wriggled free, jumped to his placemat, and immediately meowed for biscuits.
This was all normal. Nice and normal. I took a deep breath. “You know the sheriff called you fat?”
Snuggles meowed again, clearly more interested in food than watching his waistline. I fed him a small handful of kitty treats and ran upstairs to find something to wear and make myself look presentable. My head swam with suppositions and questions. So many questions. Perhaps Imogen would have some answers. Whether she did or not, Mom would get to her email the next time she visited the closest town for supplies. She’d answer my questions, hopefully, as soon as she could.
And if not, Nic said to call on him later. My heightened emotions made thinking straight difficult.
One thing for sure, I’d felt on edge before but never like this. Never in such a temptingly fabulous way.
Chapter Five
Imogen already sat at a small booth at the back of the room when I dashed inside the café where we'd arranged to meet. The enticing smell of freshly-brewed coffee and ground beans enveloped me. I shook water from my umbrella, wove my way between the crowded tables, and pulled out the chair opposite her.
“I’ve ordered cinnamon rolls and coffee.” Imogen stood to shake my hand. “My treat, of course.” Confidence radiated from her.
