Dead Vampires Don't Date

by Meredith Allen Conner

  Morgan coughed slightly. "They take their coffee very seriously here."

  "Do they pipe it in through the vents?" My left eye started to twitch. "How can you stand it?"

  "I breathe through my mouth."

  A thought occurred to me. "Wouldn't this have bothered the Prince?" The aroma was so strong I could only imagine devoted customers – and serious caffeine addicts – would ever stop in.

  "You didn't figure out that the Prince enjoyed a bit of pain after last night?" I doubted I'd forget The Whipping Post if I lived to be eight hundred and seventy three. My cheeks turned red. "The smell was just a bonus to the Prince," she continued. "He really liked their recycling policy here and all the coffee

  is organic." She glared at me. "And quit blushing, it's making me hungry."

  "Haven't you eaten already?" I asked, just a touch alarmed.

  "Yes, but my guy could only get me some O positive." She growled. I could almost hear her stomach rumble. "I hate O positive."

  I took one small step sideways. I felt the sudden urge to put a little distance between us. My harness was in the car. It rubbed my shoulders and I had Morgan with me for safety. It amazed me that she hadn't bled me dry earlier when I was having my meltdown. Two year olds might get cranky when they were hungry. Vamps had simpler, and much bloodier, ways of managing their hunger.

  We might need to consider a stop at the ER later tonight.

  We'd done that once before. I'd faked an intestinal problem and Morgan had managed to score several pints of A-negative while I'd outperformed any Diva.

  Granted, we'd both been slightly tipsy and slightly younger. I still winced at my explanation to Aunt Tabs. Broken broomsticks are not cheap. Luckily, I'd made it to our block before I hit the tree. First and last time I've ever flown drunk.

  We skirted a table with two men. One wore a red beret; the other had a blue silk scarf tied around his neck. Their spoons clattered loudly onto their saucers as we passed. I'm sure that at some point I've mentioned Morgan's allure. It truly is universal, whether they're an S&M submissive, snotty caffeine addict or the gas station clerk with the crack showing.

  It would be really irritating if I didn't love her so much.

  I counted roughly ten tables scattered about. Clean Beans took recycling to an all new level. I swear I saw at least two of the chairs this morning on my drive to work waiting for the garbage truck.

  Beat up, gouged and fixed with a rainbow of neon duck tape, not a single table nor chair matched. Heck, some of them didn't even seem to be the correct heights for each other.

  The clientele didn't appear to mind. In fact, there was a certain smugness throughout the entire room, ratty furniture included. Maybe it had been that air of superiority that appealed to the Prince?

  "How often did the Prince come here?"

  "From what I was told, every day." Morgan rounded another table, this one empty. "He started off his evenings here."

  "He didn't consider this place below him?" I just couldn't picture the smartly dressed Prince sitting on a chair with sunshine yellow duck tape strapped around the seat.

  Morgan stopped and spun around. She eyed me for a moment.

  "Every supernatural person I know recycles." She paused. "I didn't plan to go into this, especially after your," she winced, "meltdown, but recycling is huge for us. We've got a vested interest in this planet."

  My issues threatened to make a comeback, but I swallowed them back down. Since I'm not in the "in crowd" and Morgan and I spend most of our time together getting into trouble, I hadn't realized the importance of recycling to the immortal community. It made sense.

  "So the Prince really liked to recycle?" We'd made that point, however it gave me a chance to double check the inner lock on the door to my issues.

  "Try fanatic." Morgan turned around. I was pretty sure she was headed toward the corner table with the enormous mountain man at residence. His beard was longer than my hair. Pulled straight.

  "He pitched a huge fit at his mother's birthday because the organizer used non-biodegradable cups."

  No wonder the Prince had been murdered. He didn't have any sense of self-preservation at all. If there was anyone scarier than Ivan, it had to be the Queen of the United States Vampires. That woman could scare the robes straight off the Inquisition.

  Actually, from what I'd been told, three of those robes hung on the wall behind her throne.

  "Morgan. Nice to see you." Mountain man's voice resembled a bear. After a long winter's hibernation. Deep, growly and seldom used, it took my brain a moment's lapse to decipher his words.

  "Can I get you something to drink?" He frowned at us, voice frosty. "I don't see your cups."

  The customers were expected to bring their own beverage containers? Now that was taking reduce, re-use and recycle too far. I couldn't be expected to get dressed properly, let alone remember my mug, before I had at least a cup of coffee in the morning. And if I got my fix at home, what would be the point of stopping at Clean Beans? Maybe they catered to an afternoon crowd? Or caffeine addicts who drank all day?

  Hmmm. A caffeine addict? People with addictions did crazy things to get their fix. Even murder. I couldn't see killing someone over coffee . . . never mind. Take away my wake-me-up in the morning and there would be hell to pay. I still could not imagine killing anyone over it, but I'd never had anyone try to steal my coffee either.

  And why would a Prince steal anyone's coffee?

  Damn Ivan. Our encounter earlier rattled me a lot more than I wanted to acknowledge.

  "We're not drinking tonight." Morgan pulled out a chair. I did the same. Strips of cheerful green tape covered a large section of the seat. Large enough to make me wonder about its sturdiness.

  My black outfit might have a lovely slimming effect, however, I am all too aware that it is just an effect. A sometimes size ten butt is not for sissies.

  I held my breath as I eased onto the seat. Why I thought holding my breath would help, I have no idea. The seat remained firm, no splintering into tiny pieces. I began to wonder if my night might be turning brighter.

  "We just wanted to ask a few questions." Morgan indicated me. "This is Kate. She's a rep from a recycled paper company. She wants to put together a website for the company on recycling and how it's changing people's lives. She's looking for people to tell their stories."

  Mountain man leaned forward, arms planted on the table as if he intended to leapfrog over it. The table groaned. I inched my chair backwards.

  "What company?"

  I blinked rapidly. We hadn't come up with a name for the company. Reduce, re-use and recycle – I was pretty confident someone had used some version of those words for their company. They all began with R . . . aha. "The three R's of planet earth."

  Aunt Tabs used to talk about the three R's when helping me with my homework. It never made any sense to me back then. It still doesn't. Why use "the three R's" to talk about reading, writing and arithmetic when writing and arithmetic start with different letters? Sure, they have an R somewhere in them, but that's like saying 'A' stands for zebra when . . .

  "Never heard of it." Mountain man sat back in a disappointed huff.

  Focus, Kate, focus.

  Damn that Ivan to every corner and shadow of Hell.

  I re-grouped and thought back on mountain man's comment. He knew every recycled paper goods company out there? That's a bit creepy. I could picture him, late at night, looming over his computer with a green, 100% recycled notepad in hand, writing down company after company with his self-crafted goose feather pen.

  I blinked several more times. "We're a new company. Just getting started."

  He leaned forward again. His hazel eyes glittered. "New, huh?"

  I slid my chair back a few more discreet inches.

  "Kate, this is Ed."

  Ed? I had something more along the lines of Ted and Bundy and substituting pollution for young women. But Ed missed Ted by one letter, sort of like the three R's.


  Oh, never mind. I yanked myself firmly into the present and finding a killer.

  "Yes." I beamed. It was Ed's turn to sit slightly back. "We're hoping to have our site and company up and running in a couple months. Right now, I'm collecting data and stories for our website."

  Ed wrapped a giant paw around his chipped, dirt-brown mug and took a large gulp. "What would you like to know?"

  "What are your experiences with recycling? How has it changed your life? And do you happen to know anyone else who is passionate about recycling?" Morgan had assured me that if I mentioned passionate and recycling in the same sentence I'd get a hit on the Prince.

  She was dead on in her prediction.

  Apparently no one, and I mean no one, was as passionate about recycling and saving Mother Earth, than the Prince. It almost made me sad about his demise.

  Then I considered my own life and my agency. Call me shallow, but my life as well as my business and livelihood trumped recycling any day. Besides I put all of my aluminum cans, plastic bottles and papers in their perspective bins on a daily basis. Heck, I even brought my old batteries to the recycling station.

  Okay, okay. I only did it that one time, but it still counts.

  The Prince could stay dead, all the aggravations his death currently caused me aside. Really, did it matter? The Prince was dead, truly dead, no matter what.

  Which left me still trying to find his killer and save my own hide. I was making zero progress so far with Ted. I mean Ed.

  Ed had quite a bit to say about his own recycling methods. When I gently steered the conversation in the direction I wanted it to go, he had even more to say about Xavier.

  All of it good. Really good. Like seriously crushing on the Prince – in a very manly way, of course – good.

  Morgan and I tried the next table. And the next. And the next. And even the next one. I met some extremely interesting people. Most of them I devoutly hoped I'd never see again.

  Everyone loved the Prince. He was hands-down the Prince of Recycling. Rather, he had been. I had to keep reminding myself that he was indeed dead. You'd think it wouldn't be that hard, but everything I did and had done in the last few days was a direct result of him. It sort of kept him alive in my own mind.

  ****

  "Why did you think we should interview the people here?" I asked Morgan. We sat at our own table, a couple of empty tables away from anyone else.

  This table had been painted an ocean blue at one point. Now the paint had so many chips and scratches it resembled a three-year old's painting of an ocean, squiggly lines and all.

  The mismatched chairs were not much better. At least they hadn't collapsed under us. Under me. I couldn't see a one-leg chair buckling under Morgan.

  She scowled. "When I asked around, The Whipping Post, Spike's and Clean Beans were the places the Prince frequented the most. Considering the choice of weapon used on the Prince, I thought we might find someone here with a grudge against him."

  Morgan glared at the table as if blaming it and everyone in the coffeehouse for not wanting to kill the Prince. She didn't like it when her plans did not come together.

  I understood that all too well.

  Ivan's visit earlier had ratcheted up my need to find the true killer to a level of Impending Doom. Any more missed trails and I wouldn't have to worry about tightening the screws on my case file. I feared there wouldn't be enough pieces of me left big enough to stick a thumbtack through.

  "I'm going to the bathroom." I bolted towards the appropriate sign near the display counter before Morgan could say anything. My stomach bobbed and weaved like a small boat on a stormy sea.

  I'd added the gruesome visual to my last thoughts on Ivan. Note to self: never ever add the visual to any thought even remotely related to Ivan.

  The bathroom door had a sign taped in neon orange to it that read "Bathroom Closed. Please use facilities in back →↑!"

  I hurried down the dim hall. They'd forgotten at least one curve in their arrows. I rounded another corner. I pressed my hand to my uneasy stomach and began whispering a spell.

  I passed two more doors, followed yet another twist in the hall. It opened up into what must be a storage room. Boxes and shelves lined the walls. A faint light escaped from under the bottom of a door on the other side. Finally.

  The punch came from nowhere.

  It knocked me clear across the room. I slammed into several cardboard boxes. Half a second later, I crashed onto the cement floor. My head bounced off the concrete. My jaw shrieked, my head throbbed.

  Warm copper filled my mouth.

  Something flashed too quickly to follow. I had a moment's realization that I was in the air again. Then I hit one of the shelves face first. The steel shelving cut into my skin, splitting it open. I crumbled onto the floor. The shelves creaked above me. Boxes and containers pounded onto my chest and legs. The massive shelf began to tilt. I flung my hands over my head and prayed. Metal grating echoed all around me.

  "No!"

  The deep bellow penetrated the screeching steel. Something heavy landed on my hands. Agonizing pain shot through my lower jaw, driving the air straight from me. I tried to twist, to protect myself. I couldn't move. I was trapped under the weight of the boxes and supplies.

  The horrible screech came closer and I knew I had seconds left and then . . . it was gone. A thunderous crash reverberated throughout the room. I flinched, but I was still alive.

  "Kate?"

  The weight covering me disappeared. Large, warm hands eased under my head and shoulders, lifted me.

  "Kate. Look at me. Open your eyes."

  I opened my eyes. Ash stared down at me. His arms cradled me against his chest.

  Something that could have been relief or rage flickered through his amber eyes.

  Right before I passed out, I decided it was both.

  19. Getting Beat Up Sucks The Wazoo.

  "Don't move her head."

  "I'm not moving her head. I'm moving her legs."

  "Why are you moving her legs? It's her head that's bloody."

  "Don't remind me."

  I'd finally settled on Ash and Morgan. It certainly sounded like them. I could have opened my eyes to check, but I wasn't quite ready for that.

  Consciousness had been slowly working its way into my brain for the last few minutes. I wanted it to go away. Right now. And not come back until I'd healed. Completely.

  I hurt.

  Sweet, sweet Glinda did I hurt. My legs hurt. My back screamed. My arms whimpered. Breathing sucked. And my head . . . I wanted a new one.

  "Why are you putting a box under her legs?"

  "She has a head wound. She needs to have her legs elevated."

  "Why?"

  "How the hell am I supposed to know? I'm a vampire! It's on the TV shows. People get hurt, you elevate their legs. Don't you get Dish in Hell?"

  They were not happy. Join the crowd. They weren't the ones bleeding. All over.

  I think I passed out again, because then I heard, "They do?"

  "Yes. Demonas have two horns on their heads and a smaller one near their spine." Firm fingers stroked softly down my cheek. "They're also very tough. They're not soft." I thought I heard Ash say, "they're not like Kate," but it could have been my imagination.

  "I didn't know they were called demona."

  "Not many people come to visit."

  "You live in Hell. It's not exactly a prime vacation spot."

  Out again.

  Very large, extremely sharp butcher knives were being inserted through my skull and into my brain. I screamed at the top of my lungs. At least I wanted to, but all I heard was a pathetic moan.

  "Kate?" Morgan's voice came from somewhere to my right.

  "Kate?" Ash knelt on my left. I hadn't opened my eyes, but I knew he knelt. His question whispered warmly over my ear.

  "Hur." My lips didn't appear to be working correctly. I tried to lick them, but I had no saliva in my mouth. My tongue felt as if I had been to the
dentist and had four root canals completed in half an hour.

  "You've got to hurt, Chicky. You're a bloody mess."

  I lifted my lids half a centimeter to glare at Morgan. She loved to point out the obvious. I closed my eyes. It pained me to keep them open.

  "Kate!"

  "Not dead." That came out clearer. I needed it to. If Ash yelled in my ear one more time, my head would explode. He's a demon, you'd think he would be able to hear my heartbeat quite clearly.

  I've been in enough similar circumstances before - fortunately without me being the injured person - so I understood the situation. The HC are never mortally wounded. Catch twenty-two there. They can be outright killed, although it takes something, or someone, extra-special to kill them. They are super-fast, super-strong and super-good at protecting themselves.

  And they have no clue about first aid. If they get hurt, they heal. If a human gets hurt, they don't care.

  I knew Ash could hear my heartbeat. So why had he roared as if he planned to drag me back into the living no matter what realm I wound up in?

  Oh crap.

  He cared.

  He wasn't using me somehow. Or maybe he still was, but the big demon had panicked because he cared. In some fashion. About me.

  A large lump formed in my throat. Damn him. This physical pain I could take. I could recover from this. And I could keep my own distance if I thought he wanted to use me. If he felt something for me, a feeling - and I don't think I planned on being picky about what or how much . . . with Ash, I just knew that I wouldn't be able to make a full recovery of my heart. I would be Kate, but not whole. Part of me would always be with Ash.

  I didn't know how big a part.

  And it flat out terrified me to find out.

  I opened my eyes wide. My right eye cooperated. My left did not. I lifted my hand to check out the exact damage. Ash caught my hand in his first.

  "Don't. Your eye is swollen." He placed his finger to the edge of my eye, light as a butterfly. "I don't know what to do." Stifled rage poured out with his words.

  "I have to do it." Ash and Morgan couldn't help.

  "What do you mean?" His finger slid from my eye, over my cheek and down towards my shoulder. He touched every spot that hurt, every part of me that had been damaged. Softer than a mother's touch, it made me ache ever so sweetly. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you."