I pause and think it over. “On second thought, I’ll take anything strong and cheap that fills a very large glass for five bucks.” I must save my cash for fuel.
The man fills a pint glass with a fizzy golden liquid resembling effervescent piss and slides it over.
Eeesh… I remember the days when I could buy a cask of fine single-malt scotch for a dollar. When did things get so expensive?
“Thank you?” I hand over my bill and collect my change. No tip. Yes, it grates my nerves. I believe in good manners and proper etiquette; however, the glass is merely a prop, and this is a desperate situation. Not only is there the child to think of, but I need blood. Now. Before I lose control and hurt an innocent person.
As my eyes scan the room, I notice a man stagger outside through the back door. He looks unkempt, his clothes are unwashed—likely no wife—and he smells of debauchery. I hope, I hope, I hope…
For appearances’ sake, I guzzle my beer and head outside through the front. When I meet up with the man around back, he is staggering to his old rusted-out sedan. He drops his keys in the snow and sways to pick them up. A part of me feels sorry for the guy—Hold on. I am an apex predator. What the devil is the matter with me? I remind myself that I did not ask to become what I am, and that I have done far more good than bad when it comes to helping humans. And right now, I have two choices: Eat this drunk guy who smells like he could be a disagreeable type or hold off until the hunger takes over and I murder whoever crosses my path. Someone completely innocent.
The latter is not an option. I lunge for the man and make it quick. He tastes…unusual. A bit of spice, indicating he was not a kind person, but he’s sour, too. And not in a lovely, summer-thirst-quenching-lemonade sort of way.
I bury him a hundred yards off into the snow-covered forest and say a quick prayer, something I never do for my food. Who. Am. I? How did I become so soft? Ever since Miriam left my life, I have become a version of myself I no longer recognize. Still masculine and attractive on the outside, of course, but different on the inside.
I look up at the sky and notice yellows, greens, and purples swirling around the stars. “Wow. What is that? So many colors…” I never knew the night sky could have rainbows.
I return to my truck and climb inside, feeling warmer than usual. The truck is also multicolored.
“Hold on…” Rainbows and more rainbows.
Dammit! Why? The man was on mushrooms. Fact: mushrooms are toxic to vampires, second only to chocolate. Normally, we can dine on anyone who has consumed both and feel nothing. The human’s blood dilutes the compounds to a minimal level. But this guy? He must’ve eaten an entire truckload.
I wave my hand in front of my face, noting the trail of colorful streaks. Wonderful. I slump behind my steering wheel. In four centuries, I have hit many lows, but nothing like this, where I feel the universe has a personal vendetta. In less than twenty-four hours, I have discovered I am the father of a miracle baby, whom I have yet to meet and who is five years old, those years completely lost. The fact that I was not there to help her or hold her or any of that grates away at the fibers of my manly being, as does the fact that I somehow feel like it is all my fault. Miriam has had to face motherhood and Nice every day on her own. I should have continued looking for her. I should have been there. Miriam and Stella were mine to care for, and I did not do it. And all along, I think I knew what was happening. I felt it in the pit of my stomach—Miriam’s sadness and worry. But instead of listening and fighting, I thought only of myself, of how much I missed Miriam. Now, the man who took them from my life is free, partying, making out with my best friend, and is plotting our demise. I had to trade my beloved motorcycle for a gas-guzzling monster truck. I have turned into a plastic-fanged manwhore for fuel. I am moneyless. And now I am on drugs!
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Get it together, Vanderhorst. Now is not the time to wallow or whine. I am that girl’s father. She needs me.
The odd thing is, I have been so hurried to find Stella that I have yet to stop and truly comprehend the situation: I’m a father. The one thing I have never wanted or believed possible. Not to mention, it is the sort of lasting relationship I have shunned throughout my existence up until I met Miriam. I was the lone wolf and damned happy that way.
Then, one day, I got a call from Lula. Our maker, Clive, had been murdered in Phoenix. Turned out to be a lie and part of his grand plan/sneak attack, but I got on a plane to find out the truth about his death, which led me to a shabby little library. At first, I thought it was a random event—me entering a slightly neglected, but magnificently stocked library, and meeting a lovely quirky librarian who mistook me for a college student interviewing for the assistant librarian position. She was smart, observant, and more beautiful than any woman I had ever known. I took the job simply to be near her.
I don’t know if it’s the drugs talking, but I think the event was fate. That same day we met, Miriam was attacked, and I saved her, but she ended up saving me, too. I had been wandering through life for centuries, blocking out the memories of the man I had to become during the Great War. The Executioner. The ruthless vampire who killed without remorse. I had stopped feeling, loving, or caring. I was convinced that this would never change, but somehow Miriam woke me, shining her light on the dark shadows of my soul, allowing me to finally see them for what they were: the past. Unchangeable. Unable to harm me. Now, she has opened a door that is so unbelievable I am unsure if it is real. A father. Me.
And I must find her. Before time runs out. I roll down the window and inhale the rainbow-colored frigid air. I will push on. I am a vampire. Even higher than a kite, my reflexes are a thousand times better than any human’s. And hey, how hard can it be, driving on a road filled with colorful gummy bears?
I shake my head, but the little bears are still there. I am fine. Totally fine. Just as long as I do not drive off into the liquid marshmallow on the side, I’m good.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time I reach Aurora, Colorado, everything still holds a pink hue, and there is now a giant teddy bear sitting beside me in the truck. Wait. What? I give the thing a poke to ensure it is not another hallucination.
Feels real enough. Where the hell did it come from? I must’ve stopped along the way and gotten it for Stella, though I have no memory of doing so.
What? I stole it! Price tag says eighty dollars. Dammit, man! Michael Vanderhorst is no thief. But that has become the theme of this trip: me, hitting rock bottom. Luckily though, I’m back to normal. Also, the sun has risen and the snowplows are out clearing the gummy bears from the roads. Yep. Feeling perfectly normal.
Well, at least the storm seems to have passed. Unfortunately, I’m out of money and low on fuel again, so I will have to come up with something.
After I search for Stella. Which will take hours. Aurora is a sprawling suburb of Denver with modern plazas, shopping, and restaurants. According to my phone, there are over fifteen hotels that meet Mr. Nice’s lodging criteria along Highway 225 and the reservoir, but sadly, after a brief visit to each, the staff assures me that there is no one fitting their descriptions.
This is impossible. Where can they be? Yes, yes. I worked as a detective for many years at Clive’s company before he closed up shop. I know that finding people and solving mysteries is not the intriguing glamour one might see on television. Most of the work involves pounding the pavement, patience, and luck. Admittedly, finding missing persons was never my bag. The work is slow, tedious, and rarely ends well.
Stop it. Stop it this instant. This will end well. I will find them. That little girl and Miriam are counting on me, so failure is not an option.
I call Lula to check in on things, but she does not answer. I tell myself not to worry. Like me, everyone has been tripping. Unlike me, they probably enjoyed it.
Now all I can think about is what I’ll do if I reach the next stop, Anaconda, Montana, and there is still no sign of Stella and Franny. What if Miriam is wrong? What if they are not in a
ny of these towns?
There is only one way to find out. I must keep going.
Nine hours later, as the sun sets on another long day, it is official: I have hit another dead end. There are no signs of Stella and the nanny in Anaconda—a postcard picture-perfect small town surrounded by snowcapped mountains—and I am nearly out of time. Add the fact that I had to steal money from a couple at the gas station, who left their vehicle unattended while they used the facilities, and I am declaring myself a letch, a scallywag, a non-gentleman. I am Michael Verynaughty Vanderhorst.
Tank full, and the final stop eight hours away (if I do not get pulled over), I call Lula again. It rings and then goes into voicemail. I hang up and try again. Nothing.
Now I’m worried. Something must be wrong.
I try one last time.
“Hello?” Miriam’s quieted voice chimes through the phone.
“Miriam!” My heart thumps with relief. “Are you all right?”
“Everyone’s still passed out, but I think they’re going to wake up soon.”
“What happened?”
“Before or after I had to watch three hundred vampires pig out on chocolate chip cookies and make out with each other, including Nice?”
Three hundred? That must be a vampire record. Leave it to Lula. “Are you all right?”
“No. Not even a little. Where are you? Have you found Stella?”
I take a sharp bend around a windy mountain road, watching my rearview mirror. I have been breaking laws left and right and not giving a damn, except that getting caught might slow me down. “There’s no sign of them at the first three locations. Are you certain they would be at a hotel and not an Airbnb?”
“Yes. We always end up staying where we meet up with Stella and Franny. It’s always a hotel.”
“Why are you so sure it has to be one of these four towns? Is it because they start with the letter A? Does Nice have some strange rule?” For example, Nice only dines on blood from people whose names begin with the letter T so he can call it Nice Tea.
“We always travel from town to town so that our route spells out F-A-N-G-E-D-L-O-V-E. We stayed in Forks last, so the next stop has to be a place starting with the letter A. Also, we never repeat towns, and lately Nice hasn’t wanted to travel by plane or boat—says they disrupt his sciatica. It has to be one of the places I gave you. They follow his most recent pattern.”
“Okay, first, how does a vampire have sciatica? Second, you’re telling me that you have been traveling for the last five years spelling out the words fanged love?”
“Yes.”
Wow. Maybe Nice should be a new character on Sesame Street, the Count’s long-lost cousin, Alpha B. Tizer or Mr. I. B. Spellin’. “He is more nuts than I realized. How have you pretended to be in love with him?”
Miriam goes silent.
“Miriam? You were pretending, weren’t you?”
“Can we focus on finding Stella, please?”
What does that mean? Did Miriam allow herself to actually fall for Nice?
Impossible. I shake my head. “Yes, yes. Of course. I am on my way to Ashford now. If for some reason she is not there, could there be any other location?”
“No. She has to be in Ashford.”
“You say that, but what if Nice changed his plan or—”
“Trust me. I’m a librarian. We know things.”
Valid point. “Stay near Lula and her phone. Be ready to run the moment I have Stella, no matter what. If you must, run alone and go to my storage locker.” I rattle off the address and a few landmarks like the Chinese restaurant across the street that serves the hottest, most delicious green beans on the planet. “They use five kinds of peppers. It’s amazing.”
“Yeah. Don’t think I’ll be making any stops for an ulcer, but thanks,” she whispers.
“Yes, sorry. My diet has been lacking. I must have stomach brain. The code on the lock is eight, four, two, one—easy to remember. Find the green bin. Inside is an envelope with cash and a set of keys to my safe house just outside town.” I rattle off another address. “A half mile down the road is a—”
“Let me guess, an Indian restaurant with the hottest curry on the planet?”
“A Joe’s Minimart.”
“Oh,” she says.
“But the Indian restaurant is a mile and a half the other way—in case you want to try their baingan bharta. It’s so hot it will make you cry for a week. Very tasty.”
“Sounds delightful,” she says sarcastically.
“Otherwise, buy supplies at Joe’s and then stay put, Miriam. No matter what. If I have Stella, and you are safe, Nice will be powerless against us.” That’s not entirely true. Nice has many allies and can come after us. But without Miriam and Stella, I have a fighting chance. Otherwise, he will use them as leverage. “Do you understand? Because this is paramount.”
“I do, but it doesn’t mean anything if you don’t find my baby.”
“Our baby. And I will find her.” My heart swells simply thinking about holding this little girl in my arms, of the three of us together. Who am I?
“If you don’t, then I have to stay with him, Michael. And I didn’t want to tell you this because I’m not what’s important right now, but I think you need to know; he plans to turn me on our fifth wedding anniversary. He promised he wouldn’t, but I found a gray hair the other day, and he freaked out.”
So this is why she wanted me to find Stella within four days. “Wait. What? You have gray hair?”
“Michael!”
“Sorry. It is just that you are so young.”
“This isn’t funny.”
I do not find this funny at all. Gray hair is like the gateway drug to old age.
She adds, “Our anniversary is the day after tomorrow.”
“Hold on. But you were married around August, yes? It’s December.”
“He goes by the Aztec calendar.”
That makes absolutely no sense, but okay. “He will not turn you. You do not need to worry.” Although, a small part of me can almost understand where Nice is coming from. Miriam is aging. I bet she will be a beautiful older woman; however, I myself cannot bear the thought of getting her back, only to lose her to aging.
“Well, I am worried because like I said, if you don’t find my little girl, then I have to stay with him. I’d rather see Stella once a week and live with him than never see her again and have my freedom.”
I cannot believe Miriam is in this position. If it is the last thing I do, I will give her back her life—her child, her freedom, and her library.
“I know I failed you once, Miriam. Nice should never have gotten his hands on you to begin with. So even if it costs me my life, I will make this right. I will find her and ensure you two are safe.” Though he was the darkest version of myself, part of me wishes I was still the Executioner. He never would have let any of this happen in the first place. He feared nothing. He felt nothing either, but it made for an efficient soldier. The lack of emotions freed my mind to focus entirely on getting the upper hand and killing my enemies. It made me faster and stronger. The Executioner would have taken out Nice the moment he looked at Miriam the wrong way.
“Please be careful, Michael,” Miriam pleads, still whispering. “We deserve a chance to try to be a family. Crap. Nice is waking up. I have to go!”
“Stay close to Lula. I will let you know once I reach Ashford.” The call ends, and I squeeze the steering wheel. Do not worry. Stella will be there. Ashford, Washington, is actually four hours from Forks, the location where I found Miriam.
But what if she is not there? What if? I have no idea where to go from there. No other leads. And Nice is waking up, about to make his move on Lula and me. Add to that, if I do not find Stella, Miriam will have to stick with Mr. Nice and be turned.
I cannot see how this situation can end well, but I must try. For them, my women: Stella, Miriam, and Lula.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Eight hours later, around four in t
he morning, I arrive at the last stop of this journey, only having robbed one more person. I swear, I will pay them back with interest and return the wallet with an apology letter once I am able. Unfortunately, all that must wait. Unlike the prior locations, Ashford only has a population of a few hundred people but dozens and dozens of possible lodgings. I counted at least thirty-two hotels, inns, and B&Bs that meet Nice’s criteria. Tourists from all over come here to visit Mount Rainer.
Process of elimination. Start at the “nicest” accommodations and work my way down the list. Regrettably, every place on my list is spread out, separated by small roads, pine tree forests, and mountainous terrain. At least it is not snowing.
I slip from Sweet Cherry, ready to hit the first hotel, when the gushing rain begins.
Son of a blizzard! This cozy mystery is not cozy at all. I wonder if they have a genre called Wet, Cold, and Miserable Mystery. This story would be perfect.
A brief questioning of the manager at the first inn chips away at what little hope I have left. The staff at the log cabins, lodges, farmhouse inns, and high-end motels pull my confidence down to minus one, similar to the temperature. No one has seen Franny or Stella, and I am beginning to think I never will. Cherry’s tank is empty, I have no money, and I am officially exhausted. There is nothing left to give.
Across from the last lodge on my long list, near the town’s center, which is basically a gas station and general store, I take a seat at the bus stop to get out of the pouring rain and call Lula. My leather pants and jacket feel like wet cardboard, and once again, my call goes to voicemail. I can only think the worst.
Eff. Me… I hang my head. The party is over. I’m sure Nice has taken Miriam back to wherever they are staying. He will kick off Lula’s ousting and use it as a platform to get to me. Stella will forever be used as his pawn to make the world’s best librarian do as he says.
Rain pellets the bus stop’s shingled roof, and I lace my fingers together. I don’t know if anyone is listening. But if you are, I do not deserve this torment. I became sick hundreds of years ago, and the only one who cared was a vampire. It was his choice to make me into this, and since then I have always tried to be a good man, even if it meant becoming the very thing I loathed: a killer, the type of person who could look into the eyes of a beautiful vampire child and end their life because I knew the difference between good and evil. Evil were the vampires who fed on families. Evil were the vampires who took these angels and made them into animals without morals. Every time I killed these innocent-looking children with vicious bloodthirsty appetites for humans—young and old alike—I told myself that good or God or something greater than myself was on my side.
The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant, Book 4 Page 10
