Last Vampire Standing

by Nancy Haddock

  I’d last seen Neil on Saturday night after the fireworks. The ones we shot off at the beach and the ones caused by Jo-Jo’s appearance. Neil must’ve still been ticked, because he’d been terse with me during the hour we’d surfed. I didn’t expect him to stick around after we’d stowed our boards, but he did.

  He leaned against the fender of my SSR, frowning as I dried off with a palm tree beach towel.

  “Tell me you sent that creepy vampire packing.”

  I used the towel to squeeze water out of my ponytail and prepared to fudge.

  “Neil, I can’t ship Jo-Jo back to Atlanta against his will.”

  “I get that, but you’re not letting him hang around the house, are you? You’re keeping him away from Mags, right?”

  “It’s Maggie I need to keep away from Jo-Jo.”

  He scowled. “What does that mean?”

  “She insisted that we both help him with his comedy routine last night. Not for long,” I added when Neil’s fists clenched. “Maggie went to bed before midnight.”

  “Are you telling me that she’s sponsoring another vamp?”

  “No, I am. Sort of. And before you erupt, I doubt Jo-Jo will stay around long. He’ll work this comic thing out of his system, then he’ll move on.”

  “You want to put that in writing?”

  “It’s a no-brainer,” I bluffed.

  “Fresca, it’s no secret it took me a while to warm up to you, but that’s in the past. I’m focused on my future with Maggie, and I don’t want her involved in vampire business.”

  I tossed my towel onto the passenger seat. “Hell, Neil, I don’t want to be involved in vampire business. Haven’t I done my best to steer clear of other vamps, period?”

  “Yeah, but trouble has a way of finding you.”

  “Only that once, and the killer was a human,” I shot back.

  “Neil, listen. Anyone can see you’re wild about Maggie.”

  His eyes softened, and his gaze shifted to the ocean. “I waited half my life to find her.”

  “I love her, too. The sooner you two get married and keep each other busy at night, the happier we’ll all be.”

  He looked back at me. “You mean that?”

  “Duh.”

  He straightened and yanked on my ponytail. “Just so we agree on boundaries.”

  “We do, but I need a favor from you,” I said as he started toward his Jeep parked next to my Chevy.

  “What favor?”

  “Talk to Maggie about this whole Victorian wedding theme, and get her to scale back a little.”

  “Excuse me? She has her heart set on doing it up big.”

  I draped my arms on the hood of my truck. “Have you been to many weddings, Neil?”

  “I’m staring at forty years old. Of course I’ve attended a lot of weddings.”

  “Then think ugly bridesmaid dress and add a bustle.”

  He cocked his head in thought. “That bad?”

  “Could be.”

  He shuddered. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Neil’s protectiveness of Maggie didn’t bother me. When the French Bride killer had kidnapped Maggie in order to entrap me, I was ready to snatch his head off. Or die trying. Which is saying a lot considering I’m pretty much a pacifist and a chicken to boot. I knew firsthand that being in danger is no fun, and neither is taking a bullet.

  Which is how my first two ghost tour costumes had been ruined. Oh, I’d managed to save the skirt of the Minorcan costume, but the blouse was shot. In the back, to be precise. My Regency gown was a total loss, but I’d teamed up with Shirley Thomas, a superseamstress who made costumes for Flagler College productions.

  With Shirley’s help, we’d made a new Minorcan blouse to go with the salvaged skirt, two Regency gowns—one in emerald, the other in sapphire—and a female pirate outfit just for fun. I also hired Shirley to work on a Victorian bridal gown to surprise Maggie. I loathed bustles, but had to admit Shirley’s design would be stunning on Maggie.

  I must’ve dreamed about clothes because when I awoke at four o’clock Monday afternoon, I recalled that three of my costumes were at the cleaners. The Minorcan outfit I’d worn last night hung in my closet, but had been awfully hot to wear in August, especially before nightfall. And, though the wind from the storm moving up the coast was strong, the air was still muggy, and the skirt would blow between my legs and trip me. The pirate outfit would be a much better choice for tonight.

  I tossed off my Starbloods, then showered and dressed in shorts and a bra-top camisole. My wild hair I pulled into its standard ponytail. With plenty of time to run to the cleaners and dress for my tour at eight, I decided to knock out some housework first. I set the microwave timer for an hour, and with the Beach Boys blasting on the CD player, I dusted, ran the vacuum, and put the laundry away.

  Yes, there was a fortune buried with me in King Normand’s smelly old coffin, but I was no spendthrift. I’d bought my custom-interior SSR used, and Wal-Mart was my mecca.

  Which reminded me. Though Saber and I were sure Cici, the former blood bunny, didn’t know squat about Jo-Jo, we needed to talk with her. I scribbled a note on the magnetic pad shaped like a hula girl, the one that I kept on the fridge so Saber and I could leave each other messages. It was a way to bridge the gap between our different schedules.

  When the timer dinged, I headed out to pick up my costumes. The health food store was nearby, so I stopped to pick up the case of Starbloods I’d ordered, too. I thought about buying a he-man brand to have on hand for Jo-Jo but figured he had his own stock by now. Call me unadventurous, but caramel macchiato was all I’d drink.

  Except for sweet tea, heavy on the ice, of course.

  I arrived back home to find a message from Saber on voice mail. He’d completed his official reports on the search of Hot Blooded and then called a Realtor to start his St. Augustine house hunt. Yippee. He went on to assure me he’d be at the cottage in time to hear Jo-Jo’s act.

  Saber had better show, since he’d set up the session. If I had to sit through another round of bad jokes, I just might spontaneously learn to fly. To someplace exotic. Like Texas.

  When I first started guiding ghost tours in March, they weren’t what you’d call normal. Not with my Covenant stalker in one group, a murder victim in another, and Ike and company in the third.

  My tours had improved over the last few months, but the occasional nutcase still showed up. I spotted tonight’s oddball among the fifteen normal tourists as soon as I walked through the old city gates and made my way to the waterwheel at the Mill Top Tavern, where my tours started. What was my first clue the guy was a nut?

  Besides being dressed in camouflage cutoffs paired with a matching sleeveless vest and a dingy green T-shirt, the Ichabod Crane look-alike wore five huge crosses around his neck.

  My second clue? He was laden with at least eight cameras and other gizmos, the straps crisscrossed Rambo-style over his thin chest.

  The third clue came when the guy stuck a gadget in my face and smacked me in the nose.

  “Argh,” I sputtered and stumbled back.

  Since I wore my pirate costume, the crowd laughed.

  “Stand still while I get a baseline,” the guy commanded, moving in on me again.

  Being polite to tourists is one thing, but I refuse to be ordered around by them. I took two deliberate steps away and planted one hand on the hilt of my rubber sword in its plastic scabbard.

  “Matey, it is not a good idea to stick things in a pirate’s face.”

  The young man blinked big brown eyes. “My name’s Kevin Miller, and this is an electromagnetic field meter”—his gaze dropped to the gadget—“that’s going nuts. Besides, you’re not a pirate. You’re the vampire.”

  “Exactly. A vampire might bite.”

  “You won’t. You don’t bite people.” He grinned at his fellow tourists like he’d won a prize. “I did my research.”

  “Yes, but did you leave your manners at home?”

&nb
sp; He shifted from one foot to another at my schoolmarm tone and fingered one of the crosses with his free hand. He looked down at the one he held, then back at me.

  “My crosses aren’t lighting up.”

  “Unless you put batteries in them, why would they?”

  “Because you’re a vampire.”

  I smiled at him and the crowd. “Not much of one, according to my friends. Now, is everyone ready to visit the ghosts of St. Augustine?”

  Amid murmurs of assent, I dodged Kevin to collect tickets and headed for the tour substation. The substation is a square cabinet with padlocked doors. Two-by-fours screwed to the sides of the cabinet support a sign that reads Old Coast Ghost Tours.

  I stashed the tickets in a manila envelope in the cabinet alongside our ghost tour pamphlets and snagged a battery-operated lantern with plastic panes. I didn’t need the lantern, and it didn’t give off much light anyway, but carrying a lantern was part of the tour guide ambiance.

  “Welcome to the Old Coast Ghost Walk. Gather around, now. Don’t be shy.

  “I’m Cesca Marinelli, born in St. Augustine in 1780. My parents were among those immigrants from Minorca, Italy, and Greece, who came here as indentured servants to work in the New Smyrna Colony. My mother was Minorcan Spanish, my father an Italian mariner.

  “We’re standing at the north end of what is called the Minorcan Quarter, or the Spanish Quarter, or simply the Quarter. This is largely where the immigrants settled, and many downtown properties are still owned by Minorcan descendants.

  “We’ll start our tour by going through the city gates to the Huguenot Cemetery and wind our way through the historic district. If you have any questions along the way, just raise your hand.”

  Three hands waved, one of them Kevin’s. I called on a young woman in lime green shorts and a white blouse.

  “Will we see the place where you caught the French Bride murderer?”

  “I didn’t catch him alone, but yes, we’ll see Fay’s House toward the end of the tour.”

  “Are we going into haunted buildings tonight?” a man at the back called out.

  “We’ll be going into the oldest drugstore.”

  Kevin shouldered his way closer. “I need time to take readings and photographs.”

  “I appreciate that you want to document the ghosts, but these tours run on a schedule.”

  Kevin shook his head. “I’m not here just to document ghosts. I’m here to document your abilities as a ghost magnet.”

  Ghost magnet?

  Okay, so maybe spirits did relate to the underdead part of me, but my fellow tour guide Mick Burney is the only one who’d ever called me a ghost magnet. Had Mick gotten this guy to pull a gag, or was Kevin serious?

  From his expression, I was going with serious. Sheesh.

  “You can take any measurements you want, but I can’t wait for you. Now,” I said, sweeping the group with a bright smile, “come along, and let’s meet the ghosts of St. Augustine.”

  I saw the usual ghostly suspects in their usual haunts. Elizabeth the gatekeeper’s daughter waved to us as we passed through the city gates. Judge John B. Stickney also waved. The judge was a prominent citizen who had died of typhoid while on a business trip to Washington, D.C. Buried in the Huguenot Cemetery but later exhumed, the story is that he searches the cemetery for the gold teeth that grave robbers stole.

  Erastus Nye and John Hull made themselves known at the Huguenot, as did a lady wearing a snood. A cat ghost brushed against at least four tourists’ bare legs.

  At the Catholic Tolomato Cemetery, we saw the Man in Black—a black robe—who is said to be a Franciscan missionary murdered on the grounds of the then Seloy Indian village. The Bridal Ghost made a brief appearance, too, but the tourists were even more absorbed with the orbs of light that zipped around the cemetery for a good five minutes.

  That is, when Kevin left his fellow tourists alone long enough to be amazed instead of annoyed.

  His cases of equipment thumped and bumped the other tourists until they stayed as far from him as they could get and still hear my ghost stories. He EMF metered me and anyone else who found a cold spot, flashed the camera darn near continuously, and made such a big pain of himself that I half hoped the biting ghost who hangs around the oldest drugstore would nibble him. But, no. The biter ghost must’ve taken a camera case to the kisser and backed off.

  An hour and a half later, we had covered about one square mile of town and were back at the waterwheel. There waited Victor Gorman, my Covenant stalker.

  Dark hair, black ops outfit, scar running down his right jaw. Eerie light blue eyes. Same old Gorman. His breath reeked of jalapeños, garlic, and cheap cigar, just as it had the first time he’d confronted me. Guess he figures onions would be overkill.

  “Hello, Mr. Gorman,” I greeted him pleasantly. “Have you been on vacation?”

  Gorman blinked, not expecting my warm welcome. Okay, lukewarm. I smiled sweetly back.

  His eerily light blue eyes narrowed, crinkling his weathered skin. “What are you up to, vampire?”

  His voice was as gravelly as ever, and his personality just as grating. I stuck to my kill-him-with-kindness policy.

  “I’m just wrapping up my tour,” I answered him, then turned to my audience to do the closing spiel.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me on the Old Coast Ghost Walk this evening. We appreciate your patronage, and, if you want to turn in an evaluation form, you can get a discount on a future tour.”

  “But,” Gorman yelled, “don’t count on takin’ it with the vampire.”

  “Why not?” one of the tourists asked.

  “ ’Cause you never know when she might get herself kilt.”

  “Stupid man. She’s wearing a pirate getup, not a kilt,” I heard an older lady say as she and her husband toddled off.

  I grinned at the couple, letting Gorman’s comment pass. After all, this is what we did. Gorman threatened, and I ignored him. I didn’t underestimate him, though; I had a feeling he would try my patience tonight.

  “You’re Gorman?” Kevin asked, clomping closer. “Ms. Marinelli’s stalker? The one who was shot when you distracted the French Bride killer?”

  Gorman straightened, preening as Kevin snapped yet another photo. “I’m the guy.”

  “Did you see any ghosts?”

  “Huh?”

  I didn’t understand what ghosts had to do with the shooting either, but zippity hot damn do-dah, I saw my chance to dump Gorman on Kevin and make a clean getaway.

  “It’s a great story,” I gushed. “Mr. Gorman challenged the killer right there in the street. You should let him tell you the whole thing firsthand. Oh, sorry, where are my manners? Mr. Gorman, this is Kevin Miller.”

  While the men shook hands and awkwardly talked, I put my lantern away, relocked the cabinet, and edged toward the bay front to slink away.

  “Hold it, vampire, I wanna talk to you.”

  Rats. Foiled.

  I pasted polite on my face and turned. “I can’t imagine what we have to discuss.”

  “Just this.” Gorman stalked closer, Kevin on his heels, until the two of them flanked me. “I hear rumors there’s other vampires in town, and I wanna know two things. What’d you have to do with it, and what you gonna do about it?”

  “Nothing, nothing, and where did you hear this rumor? I don’t think your source is reliable,” I shot back, hoping to confuse him.

  It worked. Gorman’s face screwed up in thought. He was not the sharpest stake in the Covenant woodpile.

  “Oh, look at the time. Must run,” I said, stepping back to skirt around Kevin.

  But Kevin grabbed my wrist, clonking me with a camera case.

  “Wait, Ms. Marinelli. Are more vampires really coming here to St. Augustine?”

  “You heard the rumor, too?” A mean grin spread over Gorman’s puffy lips, and he grabbed my other arm to trap me between him and Kevin. “Tell me who the scum are, vampire. Where do I find ’
em?”

  My heart raced, but I didn’t panic. “There’s nothing to tell,” I said calmly, “so, both of you, let me go.”

  “Indeed, you blackguards,” a voice roared behind me. “Unhand Her Highness this instant, or face my wrath!”

  In a rush of air, a hand brushed my side, and there stood Jo-Jo, brandishing my rubber sword.

  Ay-yi-yi.

  EIGHT

  Gorman and Kevin released their holds on me out of pure shock, and well they should have, because Jo-Jo was a sight to bemuse. In black leather pants, a white poet’s shirt, and his hair tied back to show the healing wound on his forehead, he looked like a Shakespearean biker dude.

  His eyes, though, blazed with dead serious intent. In spite of that outfit, I realized that Jo-Jo could be as potentially dangerous as anyone else, human or vampire.

  “Who the hell are you?” Gorman demanded.

  “I am Jo-Jo the Jester, champion of the fair Francesca, Most Royal Highness of the House of King Normand.”

  “You’re one of the freakin’ new vampires in town?”

  Jo-Jo waved the sword. “Step away from the princess before I run you through.”

  “Uh, Jo-Jo,” I said, having eased from Gorman and Kevin on my own. “That’s a rubber sword.”

  He blinked, twirled the sword in a blur of speed, and tapped the tip on the bricked surface of the plaza.

  “Zounds! Never mind, my princess. I shall fight with my bare hands if necessary.”

  Gorman’s perpetual scowl contorted. The corners of his mouth twisted upward, and he wheezed a sound I realized was laughter. Really creepy laughter.

  “Damn, this’ll get those pansies in the Covenant seein’ things my way again.”

  “Pansies?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  Gorman gave me shifty eyes. “I kept warnin’ ’em about you. Told ’em it was a matter a time before they’d regret decidin’ to leave you alone.”

  I blinked. “Do you mean that all this time the rest of your Covenant buddies haven’t been out to get me?”