Vampire Bites: A Vampire Romance Anthology

by Lori Devoti

  “Roderick. Bring in the next painting.”

  “Look…I’m not majoring in Fine Arts. I’m a Medieval Lit fanatic. I really don’t know much about paintings and I—” Jolie’s voice stopped as another painting was walked in as if it had legs, since its size predicated the obliteration of the man’s legs as he carried it.

  It was another MacKettryck forebear, painted in a different setting, this time astride a horse. He wore even more Highland regalia and held a claymore that looked vaguely familiar. Jolie’s eyes narrowed and she easily read the artist signature from across the room. Dyce. 1827. She didn’t question why her eyesight was at such a miraculous and finite degree. She’d already decided to worry over it later, when she had some solitude. Besides, it matched her new hearing and recollection abilities. Ever since the quiz this morning when she’d only had to think of a page to recollect it perfectly.

  That had been before this little surprise excursion into madness. This ancient gentleman requested her presence through the dean. The dean! She’d just barely arrived and attended three days of classes and already she was being escorted to the dean’s office? Under threat from the two large, body-builder types this old man claimed as colleagues? The ignominy of it was worse than the shock. And for what? To take her to a cellar room, probably as old as the university founded in 1427, and show her old paintings so they could interrogate her about the MacKettryck bloodline.

  Speaking of…Thoran did have a spectacular bloodline. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the men were one and the same. That particular observation caused goose flesh to race her arms and then her shoulders.

  “This is the third Duke of MacKettryck.”

  “I sort of suspected he was related,” she dead-panned. Her joke fell flat. She watched the old man trade looks with his two henchmen.

  “They are one and the same.”

  “Not a chance, Old Man. They were painted what? Two hundred years apart? Or more?”

  “Bring in the next painting Roderick.”

  “No. Don’t bother, Roderick.” Jolie mimicked the feeble tone and stood, adjusted her fanny pack, and ran her fingers along the music-player with ear buds, the cell phone, and pack of gum. All solid. Real. Actual.

  “You’re ready to admit the truth?”

  “What truth? You’ve got paintings of MacKettryck forebears?”

  “No. I have proof of MacKettryck. Since he can’t be photographed, it’s the next best thing.”

  “Oh. Please.” Jolie shifted from one foot to the other. “Can I leave now? My roommate will probably be wondering where I am.” It wasn’t likely that Janet even cared. But they wouldn’t know that.

  “Your roommate cares for naught save herself.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The same way I ken you’re an only child. A late child. You are an army brat. Born in Germany, because that’s where your father was stationed. After that you were shuffled all over the world until your father got to Alaska. Fell in love with the place and settled the entire family there, working in a fairly lucrative business in antique cars. Restoration, procurement, and sales. Everything was wonderful until your mother passed on of breast cancer when you were nine. Followed by your father’s death two years later, after he gifted you with a step-parent and two step-siblings, all of whom you fail to communicate with since his demise.”

  Jolie swallowed. “Ok. Why do you want to know all that?”

  “Because it’s my business to ken such things. From the cradle. I’m a hunter, gifted with it from my first bite. And so I hunt. And I’ll continue to hunt. To do that requires research and knowledge.”

  “Spying.”

  “Please. Sit. We mean you no harm.”

  “Of course not. That’s why you lied to get me in your clutches and why you keep me here against my will while you show me paintings. It has nothing to do with harm. Just abduction and illegal imprisonment and then slow starvation.”

  “Roderick? Fetch Miss Pritchard a scone. With honey. And tea. It’s near tea time.”

  “You’re joking,” Jolie replied.

  “I need your help, Miss Pritchard. I won’t worry you for anything else. You have to help us catch a monster.”

  “A monster. Right.”

  He took a deep breath. His fingers tightened on his cane but that was the only sign she’d bothered him.

  “You have valuable information, my dear. You don’t know the scope of it, and I’d rather you never learn. But I will have that information. I have to have it.”

  “I don’t have anything. I’m new to Scotland. Just arrived. Honest.”

  “Sit. Please? You’re giving me a crick in the neck to look up at you.”

  Jolie regarded him for some time. Then she sat again in the hard ladder-back chair, facing what had gone to three paintings. The last was another rendering of Thoran, with a supremely bad hairstyle, leaning against a pillar. This one was circa 1901, clothed from the Edwardian period. And before her eyes, the oldest one seemed to move. Just slightly, with a waver that made the eyes more defined and more akin to molten silver. Fathomless.

  ‘A Chroi.’

  Odd words filled her ear, spoken as if Thoran sat beside her, sending it into existence, bringing back vivid memories and remarkable reactions. Jolie focused on the painting, looking the third duke in the eye while she blinked reality back into place from wherever it was hiding. She took a breath to steady herself. “Let’s get this over with, then. What do you need? And why do you think I have it?”

  “Have you looked at the paintings?”

  Jolie looked to the ceiling. Then back. It was possible the man had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, too. She’d just thought him senile. She blew the sigh so hard it puffed out her lips, sending the minute sting of her split lip into play. She busied herself with her lip gloss while he waited. She was finished before he spoke to her again, exhibiting Old World etiquette while she acted and started feeling like an uncouth brat. “All right. I’ve looked. They’re very good. Masters painted them. So what?”

  “They’re the same man.”

  “They’re the same clan,” she corrected him.

  “No, Miss Pritchard. They’re all Thoran Alexander MacKettryck.”

  “That’s it. I’m leaving.” Jolie made a move to stand. One of his henchmen pushed her back into the seat and held her there with a heavy hand on her shoulder. Unpleasant shivers ran from the spot.

  “You can’t deny the proof before your own eyes.”

  “Proof? Listen up. I’m tired of being man-handled, and I’m tired of innuendos, and I’m tired of nonsense. I’m just plain tired. I can tell a line of bull no matter how pretty it’s dressed up. I see you like MacKettryck. Or you like old paintings. Be my guest. Enjoy them.”

  “They’re alike. You do see that.”

  “You’re right. You got me. Those guys are definitely alike. Because they’re related. It doesn’t mean a thing. In fact, this entire episode is starting to approach nightmare status. If this is all you wanted from me, it’s a bust. I can’t help you.”

  “We happen to think you’ve met him.”

  “Who?”

  “Those three…gentleman. Or rather, that one gentleman.”

  “Impossible. They’re dead.”

  “Exactly. Oh good. Tea has arrived.”

  Jolie opened her mouth but shut it again as a teapot and two cups were placed on the table. The service was atop a silver platter with a creamer and sugar container of the same grade of silver. They’d also added all sorts of sandwiches and baked cake things, and scones. Her mouth watered without asking it to. Roderick poured. She ignored the tea, picked up a scone and ate. Heaven knew when she’d get her next meal. Or what it would be.

  “Open your mind. Look. Listen. And then help us.”

  “Do what?”

  “Find him.”

  “Who?”

  “The gentleman in those pictures!” He stamped his cane for emphasis and two little spots of color tipped his s
keletal cheeks.

  “This is stupid. And I’m not baby-sitting if I’m not getting paid.”

  “You’re in danger, you little fool!”

  A shiver touched both arms and flew her back at his tone. And the way he’d stomped again with his cane. Jolie looked at him without expression for long moments before leaning forward to lift a little sandwich thing they appeared to have cut the crusts off. She tasted it and made a face. They’d used some sort of cucumber filing. She’d tried it once before at a fancy garden party. It hadn’t been to her taste then and it wasn’t now. She picked up her hot tea, looked at the loose tea leaves coloring the bottom before sipping it. She should’ve asked for sugar.

  “How so?” She finally asked when nobody said anything.

  “Have you ever heard of the vampires?”

  Jolie choked on her next sip. “Vampires? You’re talking…vampires now?” She tried not to laugh but the giggle escaped. His expression didn’t change.

  He nodded.

  Jolie cleared her throat and put the tea down before she spilled it. “Of course I’ve heard of vampires. Everyone has. The legend supposedly has its roots with a Prince Vlad Dracul who used to impale his victims. And then he feasted while they died all around him. Bram Stoker used that medieval legend and other cult superstitions to write the Dracula novel. It’s fiction. They’ve made countless film versions of it. I truly hate to break it to you, Lord Beethan…but vampires are not real. Truly. It’s been proven. So. I guess that means I can’t help you. I haven’t got the right drugs.”

  ‘A Chroi. Where are you?’

  Thoran’s whisper raised the hairs at the back of her neck and she jerked a glance to the paintings as if daring them to move. Nothing shifted. She blinked. She had to get some sleep. And out of artificially lit environments. Maybe take a brisk walk outside. Anywhere insane old men with tales of potential vampires didn’t lurk.

  “Stoker got it wrong, Miss Pritchard. But we forgive him. He hadn’t met any.”

  ‘Jolie…’

  The voice came again, as easily heard as if he were right beside her, whispering it. She was surprised they didn’t hear it. She opened her mouth. And then shut it. It wasn’t gaining her a thing to argue with them. She’d try something different: agreement.

  “Let’s say…I’ll believe you for the moment. And let’s say I’ve actually met…a real vampire.” Her voice cracked. She had to clear her throat in order to continue before she laughed. “And let’s just suppose that he’s attracted to me for some weird-ass reason no one can decipher. Because I’m like everyone’s idea of what a vampire would be looking for. I mean, look at me. I rarely wear makeup and I don’t even own a curling iron.”

  “Lineage is what matters, Miss Prichard. Lineage.”

  Jolie pursed her lips. “I’m an American, Sir. We don’t do lineage. And even if I did, I’m such a mongrel I can’t qualify for any social program. Hard to track my lineage.”

  “Not so very hard.”

  “You’ve tracked my lineage, too?”

  “That’s not what I said. I said it’s not so hard. Not in these days of DNA and instant information…computers. Molecular biology. It’s surprisingly simple. As soon as MacKettryck located and procured you, we’ve been searching for any data about you.”

  “Procured?” That sounded especially heinous. Her plan of agreeing with him wasn’t working. Jolie pinched her nose next. “Ok. I give. I’m fated to be a vampire’s next meal. Nothing much I can do about it. Can I go now?”

  “You won’t be his meal. Or you wouldn’t be here now. We think you’re his mate.”

  Jolie stood. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m leaving and if one of you tries to stop me, I’m macing him. You’re warned.” It was a bluff, but she made it a good one.

  Lord Beethan smiled, folding more of his skin into wrinkles. And then he sobered into a sad expression. “He’ll come for you, Miss. He’ll get you. It’s a foregone conclusion.”

  “Then why are you here? If there’s nothing to be done?” And why am I still here listening? Jolie yanked her sweater tighter, buttoning it clear to the chin. It didn’t work. She was still chilled.

  “You’re smart. Witty. Quick.”

  “And I’m tired,” Jolie quipped.

  “If MacKettryck contacts you again, call us.”

  “I don’t have your number.”

  “Roderick?”

  One henchman held out a little tiny credit card sized thing that had one button. One.

  “What does this do?”

  “Contacts us.”

  “And what will you do? Show up with a bunch of crucifixes?”

  “The levity is out of place, Miss Pritchard, and has been this entire meeting. But you’ll learn that soon enough. You’ve been warned. That’s really all I can do. It’s up to you now. Wear the caller. In your pocket or where you can reach it easiest. Night and day. In the shower. Jogging. Everywhere. It’s water-resistant.”

  “That’s it?”

  He nodded.

  “And I can go now?”

  He nodded again. Roderick moved to the door, and opened it to a loud creak showing the age and non-use of this particular room.

  “Shouldn’t I do something else? Wear garlic around my neck? That sort of thing?”

  “Only if you like the smell.”

  “What?”

  “That one’s a myth. Always has been.”

  “What about the crucifix?”

  Lord Beethan waved his hand. The other servant man handed her an ancient looking piece, suspended from a thick metal chain. It wasn’t a cross, exactly. It had a loop at the top and etchings all through it.

  “That’s a Celtic cross. Old. Powerful. Wear that.”

  A Chroi?’

  Thoran’s whisper came again, speaking the same words and in the same manner. As if calling to her. Jolie took the cross and put it over her neck where it fell to mid-belly with the length of the chain. She tucked it beneath her shirt and then she walked toward the door. And light. And sanity. Nobody stopped her.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She turned at the door and watched Lord Beethan stand, leaning heavily on his cane. They didn’t look like they’d be much help if she actually believed any of their nonsense and pushed the button.

  “Certainly.”

  “What does ‘A Chroi’ mean?”

  “It’s Gaelic. It means ‘My heart’. Or perhaps a better translation would be ‘My Love.’ Why?”

  Jolie patted the cross. “No reason,” she mumbled, and took the stairs at a run.

  Chapter Four

  “Good evening.”

  Jolie started from contemplation of the setting sun coming through newly leafed trees as it glinted on the water and moved her glance to the Highland god looping an arm about the tree directly to the right of her, getting graced with red and yellow hues of sunset. He looked real enough. Hard. Firm. Massive. Absolute manly. That added another point to his favor. Thoran was much better looking in the flesh than either old painter portrayed. It had been a trick of the lighting combined with the eerie atmosphere of that cellar place. Along with the company she’d kept. It had to be.

  “Must you?” she asked crossly.

  He moved to pass in front of her, looking especially solid, before sitting on the left side of her, bowing the bench seat with considerable weight.

  “Must I what?”

  “Go all Dracula on me. As well as all the other stuff.”

  “What is a…Dracula?”

  “It’s the lead in a movie. The original movie. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it. And expect me to believe it, anyway.”

  “Verra well, lass. I will na’ do that.”

  “You haven’t seen it?”

  “There is no correct answer, so I decline the offer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your wish is mine to grant this eve. You doona’ wish me to say I haven’t seen this Dracula movie. Therefore I will na’ say it.”
>
  Jolie shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “It isn’t a thing, Thoran. It’s a what. Why do I feel like I keep talking but the hard-drive just keeps spinning?”

  He didn’t say anything for so long she had time to look at his long fingers, placed with the pads together, his muscled calves showing beneath his kilt. And then she had to grasp the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath his kilt band thing today. That put more amazing muscle on display than a world class wrestler claimed. The man was jaw-dropping. Fit. And golden kissed as if he went about naked. A lot. In the sunlight.

  Wait a minute…

  “What are you doing out?” she asked.

  “Out where?”

  “Out…doors. In daylight. Sunlight.”

  “I get outdoors a bit, lass. Usually near eve. Why?”

  Jolie swallowed. “No reason.”

  “But I insist.”

  “Insist away. It’s not changing anything. I don’t have to explain anything to you. Or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Like whom?”

  She took a breath and held it. “What do you want, Thoran?”

  “To sit near you. Talk with you. Feel you…beside me.”

  “Oh. You can stop right there.”

  He’d scooted closer without reflex action on any part of him. Or her eyes had missed the move.

  “Why?”

  He’d turned toward her and was breathing all over her, matching her inhalation for inhalation. And the exhalations, as well.

  “Because I’m all confused. Tripping over my tongue. It’s your fault, too. For being such a babe. It’s hard to think straight…let alone form words if I have to do it while looking at you.”

  He pulled the upper part of his body back, leaving his hip right where it was. Pressed against hers, sending vibrations through his plaid kilt and her jeans.

  “That is a severe affront, I feel.”

  Jolie smirked. He did sound insulted. She couldn’t imagine why. “Affront? To be called a babe? That’s a good thing, Your Highness.”

  “My title is Your Grace. Only royalty use Highness.”

  “I’m attempting sarcasm.”

  “With a title? I’d prefer you na’ use it at all. And how is being a ‘bairn’ a good thing?”