The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant, Book 4

by Pamfiloff, Mimi Jean

  I will find a gift for her. The perfect gift. And I will make sure she is home for Christmas with her mother. An image of the three of us sitting by the fireplace, sipping hot cocoa—Scratch that, I shouldn’t do drugs in front of children—the three of us sipping triple espressos and listening to music, fills my mind. I have never seen myself being a part of a human family. Am I even capable of it?

  It’s a question for another day. All I know is that I love Miriam and now this child, too. Which is why I will do whatever it takes to have them in my life.

  I glance inside the establishment. It is late, but it appears to have patrons. Let’s check out what sort of wheels they have.

  I park around back to survey the dimly lit lot. There are several pickups, but only one vehicle with snow tires. I pull up next to it and look up with a grin. Monster truck. Now we are talking. It is a far cry from the caca azul—the little blue electric car I was often forced to use for various reasons in Arizona. Hate that emasculating little thing. Someday, I will treat myself by tracking it down and burning it.

  I park the bike and enter the restaurant through the back door, helmet in one hand and my backpack slung over one shoulder. The pale yellow walls inside, smell of warm French fries, and television playing in the background give the ambiance a homey, laid-back feel. There are a handful of people seated at the counter and two individuals in separate booths. Unfortunately, they are all men. All wearing baseball caps. The owner of the truck could be any one of them.

  The waitress, a plump brunette wearing a yellow apron, comes from the kitchen and stops to greet me, nearly dumping a plate of mashed potatoes and meatloaf on the floor.

  “Welcome to…” Her voice trails off, and she looks like she might actually lose her lunch. Or dinner. Whatever.

  Why are the people in this town so rude? Do they not like outsiders?

  “Good evening, ma’am, but I’m wondering if you could tell me who—”

  “Are you all right? Should I call 911?” The plate wobbles in her hand.

  “I am fine, thank you. Why do you ask?”

  “You-you’re blue.”

  Is my state of torment so obvious? “It has been a long journey here; however, I assure you, I am merely tired, not sad. Thank you for the concern.”

  “No. I mean your face is actually blue. Like a dead person. Is that an icicle hanging from your chin?”

  Huh? “One moment.” I turn and head into the men’s room. I flip on the light and glance in the mirror. A corpselike version of myself is staring back. Wonderful. I look like a blue popsicle. I seem to have frozen, likely because I have not fed, and with the wind chill on the bike, it has been twenty below. I never thought I would say this, but I miss Arizona.

  I run the hot water in the sink, drink some and splash my face until it is a non-zombie shade of pale white. I truly must feed soon.

  I pat myself dry with a paper towel and exit the bathroom. The waitress gives me a nervous glance, clearly wondering what sort of creature I am. I am Mike Frost, Jack’s older blood-drinking brother.

  I approach slowly. “Might you tell me whose large truck that is outside? One of the tires looks punctured, and I wanted to let them know.”

  She jerks her head to a young man with a scraggly beard and a red turtleneck, sitting in the corner booth. He’s watching something on his phone and sipping coffee.

  “Thank you.” I walk over and slide in across from him, unzipping my leather jacket to allow some of the ice cubes inside to melt.

  “Who are you?” The man jerks his head back.

  “They call me Michael…” I am about to give my real last name but realize there is a fifty-fifty chance I may have to steal his truck. “My name is Michael Phelps.”

  He raises one brow. “Like the swimmer?”

  Why the devil did I choose that name? How ridiculous. “Why, yes. But I assure you, I am much faster.” Vampire strength and all that. “Anyway, I find myself dealing with a family emergency and must drive through the night. I was wondering if we could trade vehicles, my mint-condition 1961 Norton motorcycle for your truck.”

  The guy leans back and folds his arms over his chest. “You’re asking me if I want to trade a motorcycle for my Sweet Cherry that has custom wheels, shocks, and a V8 that I rebuilt with my own two hands?”

  “I assure you the bike is worth at least twenty thousand at any auction. It’s a rare collector’s edition.”

  “You know this is Minnesota and it’s snowing outside, right?”

  Smart-ass. “I’ll make it worth your while.” I open my backpack and hand over a bundle of bills. Ten grand.

  He raises a dark brow. “What are you, some kind of bank robber or drug dealer?”

  “Just a man who likes cash and needs a truck with good tires.”

  “Sorry, bud. There’s no amount of money that can part me from Sweet Cherry.”

  I groan and hand him another ten K.

  “Nope.”

  All right. No more mister nice. Because I am on a mission to end Mr. Nice. “Listen,” I snarl in a low predatory tone, focusing my eyes on his pulsing neck. “Take the fucking deal, or I will drag you outside behind the dumpster and drink you to death.” I flash a little fang for good measure.

  He doesn’t react. “You’re one of those freaks I’ve seen on TV who think you’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

  Ugh. Why are modern humans so difficult to frighten? I blame the internet. “All you need to know is that I am leaving here with your truck. Also, I want your sweater.” It will keep me from turning to a real-life snowman. “So, either you choose door A: a very nice motorcycle, twenty thousand in cash, and your head intact. Or door B: your head removed. Either way, I get the truck. And the sweater.”

  He stares for a long moment. He’s going to run. I know it. I prepare to tackle him and get the keys.

  Suddenly he holds out his hand. “Sweet Cherry has an anti-theft device. You won’t make it out of the lot without my instructions because I built the system myself.”

  Dammit all to hell! Technology gets me every time. The downside of being a four-hundred-year-old vampire.

  “I want whatever else you got in the backpack,” he adds.

  It’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. “Your truck isn’t worth anywhere near that much.”

  “Fine. Happy trails, then.”

  He grabs his cup of coffee and takes a sip like he’s got all the time in the world.

  I remember the days when humans took one look in my eyes and wet themselves. They could sense the lethal predator lurking inside. Of course, that was back when I was known as the Executioner during the Great War. Clive had trained me to be a fearless killing machine, to feel nothing and show no mercy to anyone who stood in my way. Today, I am a different man. I have let love into my life. I am a father. Wow. It is surreal to say that. But somehow, it feels right, like all along it has been my destiny. Miriam and Stella. And I cannot let either of them down.

  I set the backpack on top of the table. “Take it.”

  The guy hands over the keys. “The switch is under the driver’s seat. Flick it three times.”

  I could have figured that out, goddammit.

  I hold out my hand again. “Sweater, too.”

  “My mom knitted it for me, but I guess you can have it.” He removes his baseball cap and pulls it over his head.

  “How generous,” I say drably, grab the sweater, and head to the parking lot. The truck is all black with bright red cherries and the word “Saweet!” painted on the hood. Classy.

  I climb up into the cabin, which sits about three feet off the ground and smells of cherry-scented air freshener, and start the engine. The truck rumbles to life, the sound reminding me of a tank. I cannot lie, I feel ridiculous driving such a vehicle, but it also feels like a small consolation for the hell I have been through today. I finally get to drive a man-sized car.

  Once on the road and feeling the relief of being inside an enclosed vehicle that does not freeze m
y gonads, I call and check in with Lula.

  “Hello, Boner!” she sings out over loud music.

  Boner? “How many cookies have you eaten, Lula?” I growl.

  “Just two or maybe ten. I lost count.”

  “Lula, you are supposed to be keeping an eye on Miriam.”

  “She’s chilling. Taking pictures. Did I tell you we’ve been playing two minutes in the coffin?”

  A kissing game. Two vampires go in and make out. How wonderful. It’s a frat party. “As long as you’re keeping everyone busy, especially Nice. Hold on. He is not making Miriam participate, is he?”

  “No, he won’t allow that. She’s safe, I promise,” Lula whispers and then starts speaking loudly for effect. Someone must be near her and listening. “Ohhhh…so many kisses, Boner. So wet. So much tongue.” She sighs.

  I sigh, too, but with relief. Lula is faking it. That explains why she’s calling me Boner. Wouldn’t be wise to let on she is speaking with me. “Thank you for what you are doing. If you get a chance, tell Miriam I am heading to the second stop. I will call when I arrive.”

  “Oh! I gotta go. It’s my turn. Buh-bye!”

  She ends the call. I wonder what Miriam is doing. She cannot really be taking photos. Probably hiding in the corner, wondering how she got to such a low point in her life.

  I am about to set the phone down when a text comes in.

  Lula: Ewww…I got paired up with Nice! You so owe me!

  I do not wish to diminish the sacrifice she is making; however, the truth is we will not be even until Miriam and Stella are safe. This situation is partly Lula’s fault. At the very least, it could have been avoided. She involved Nice in the effort to stop Clive, knowing that Nice was the only vampire powerful enough to take Clive out. Where Lula went wrong was not trusting me and filling me in on her plan. She had her reasons, mainly not wanting me to do anything to tip anyone off about how they were working behind the scenes to derail Clive, but that’s not a good enough reason. We knew Nice had gone off the deep end and developed an obsession with Miriam. Had I been aware he would play a role in stopping Clive, I would have ensured Miriam was hidden and kept far away from him.

  Of course, I am far too old not to know that hindsight is twenty-twenty. If I were able to rewind my life, I can honestly say that I would have made different choices. I sure as hell would have stopped Nice from taking Miriam. It was my job to protect her, and I failed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “No. Please tell me this is not happening,” I groan as the LOW FUEL light turns on. The tank had been nearly full leaving the diner, about four hours ago.

  How many miles to the gallon does this thing get?

  The snow has been coming down hard, but I think the sign I just passed said Next Gas Station 3 Miles.

  “Come on, Sweet Cherry,” I pound the steering wheel, “just a little farther.” The truck starts beeping like a furious smoke alarm. I never thought I would say this, but the caca azul could do better than this! Come on. Come on… I am too weak to push this truck, and I cannot afford to lose time.

  Several minutes later, I pull into a small gas station with four pumps. The truck barely squeezes underneath the station’s canopy, and the motor dies just as I hit the brakes.

  I look up at the sky—“Thank you”—and jump out, hurrying around to the pump. The wind is gusting and hurtling pellets of ice and snow at my face.

  I really miss my blistering desert. My stomach rumbles. And I miss vitamin B. Vampires can eat and drink regular food, but the virus that turns us into what we are also reduces the amount of oxygen our cells require and slows our blood flow along with the oxygenation and decay of our DNA. As a result, our vital organs do not get the nutrients they require. In other words, what keeps us alive also depletes our vital organs. We must consume human blood to make up for this. Preferably free-range, organic, grass-fed humans—kidding—we like our humans warm and evil, that’s about it.

  I unscrew the gas cap and reach for my…my… Where is my damned wallet? I pat the back pockets of my leather pants and groan. A quick search of the truck confirms I lost it.

  Son of a frozen biscuit! How is this possible? Not once in four hundred years have I lost my damned wallet. And of course, I gave all of my cash to Sweet Cherry’s environmentally friendly creator who thought to install a homemade LoJack but not any of the modern fuel-efficiency advances of the last century. If only this truck ran on bitterness, hunger, and frustration. Given the blizzard and lack of humans out tonight, my only option is to see the cashier.

  I approach the bulletproof glass with tiny holes, where a middle-aged woman with red hair is staring down at her phone.

  “Good evening, ma’am.”

  Eyes glued to her tiny screen, she doesn’t respond. I can hear screaming and someone say the word “Sookie.”

  Is she watching True Blood? I think so, which could be a good sign. My dark, alpha-male charms will be irresistible to her.

  I rap my knuckles on the glass. “Sorry to interrupt your evening, but I require assistance.”

  Without lifting her overly mascaraed eyes, she says, “Pump number? Slide the money in the tray.”

  “The thing is,” I offer my most charming smile, “I seem to have lost my wallet.”

  She places her hand to her mouth as screaming ensues on her phone. “Bill! No!”

  “Hello!” I tap the glass. “This is an emergency. My daughter has been taken, and I must find her.”

  The woman’s hazel eyes whip to my face. “Sorry? Did you say someone kidnapped your kid?”

  “Yes. And I lost my wallet. Can you assist?”

  “First off, why do you talk like my grandfather screwed a character from Masterpiece Theater? And second, why the hell are you looking for her and not the police?”

  Ugh. My face and athletic body might look twenty, but my brain is not. I often forget to interject ums and uhs to sound more my age. “I’m nervous. Yanno? This is a really messed-up situation, and the fuzz can’t help.” Fuzz is a more modern term for the police, yes?

  “Errr…okay. Nice try. Take your stoned ass out of here. I’m busy.”

  “I am serious. Not stoned.”

  “Whatever. But no money, no gas. And no loitering either, so pay and pump or leave.” She returns to watching her show.

  Grrrr… I could punch through the glass, but there are three security cameras on this property, and each have already captured my image. If I threaten or rob her, I won’t make it across the state line.

  I raise my arms and press my palms to the glass, leaning in and doubling down on the charm. “I promise I’m not on anything,” I say in my deep, sexually enticing voice. “Look at my face. I am telling the truth, so please open your kind Midwestern heart and supply me with fuel. I will do anything.”

  She eyes me through the glass. “Anything?”

  Uh-oh. I should have narrowed the field. For example, I do not give foot rubs to strangers. That is way too personal. Also, I cannot cook. “Anything within reason, yes,” I clarify.

  I see her mind at work. She is sizing me up for something.

  “Fine. You want a full tank…?” She holds up a pair of plastic fangs.

  Oh hell. Seriously?

  Back on the snow-covered road, I shiver with revulsion, still tasting cheap plastic in my mouth. The worst part was that when I refused to bed her in the bathroom of her cashier cubby, she forced me to keep gnawing on her neck and say, “Numm, numm, numm… You taste so nummy,” while she, well, did the sort of things people—and vampires—do to release pressure. I would have preferred touching her feet.

  Also, now I’m really hungry. Not because of her shrill voice as she called me Bill, but because I had to endure twenty minutes of smelling her syrupy sweet blood pulsing away beneath her pale Minnesotan skin. Nothin’ like a Midwestern woman fed on a steady diet of comfort food. Sure, I prefer bad humans who taste spicy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a buttery treat now and again. Hmmm… My mouth water
s.

  Just then, my stomach and I rumble past the full parking lot of a bar. Considering that we’re out in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm, it’s surprising so many people are out.

  I must not stop. I must endure the hunger. I haven’t a moment to lose.

  Still, I find my hands and arms pulling left into the end of the lot. I can practically smell the delectable sinister humans inside. Surely one of them is in need of a clean death from a very respectable, legendary vampire?

  Nearly out of my mind with hunger pangs, I park and go inside. As I unzip my leather jacket and shake the snow from my unkempt hair, the smells of cigarettes, booze, and sweet human sweat fill my nose. Yes! There are some very spicy people in here.

  I stroll past the large fake Christmas tree adorned with tiny plastic bottles of alcohol, and belly up to the bar. Holiday music plays in the background, and several people are wearing Santa hats.

  Must be a holiday party for the locals.

  I flag down the bartender and order a whisky with the extra twenty the cashier gave me for my performance. “Seriously? O.M.G. I felt like you were a real vampire sucking my neck. If you come this way again, call me.” She slid the money into the front pocket of my leather pants and kissed me hard. “I’m yours, tough guy. Anytime. Anywhere.” I smiled and thanked her, trying to remember that I am a gentleman, and gentlemen never hurt a lady’s feelings. We protect them. However, I would never call a woman who makes a man wear prosthetic fangs. It is a serious red flag. Vampires should be feared, not fantasized over. Also, my heart is taken. Even if at this moment I am struggling to accept Miriam’s choice to abide by Nice’s demands instead of asking for my help, I still love her. That will never change.

  “What kind of whiskey?” says the bartender, who’s covered in neck tattoos.