Your Coffin or Mine?

by Kimberly Raye

  To my left, I saw a rat big enough to saddle and mount scurry under a stack of cardboard boxes.

  “There you go,” I told the cat. “You can feast on Mickey and I’m off the hook.”

  Unless Mickey decided to feast on Killer, here. The rat was certainly big enough for a knock-down, drag-out. And who knew? It might win and then I wouldn’t just be guilty of animal neglect. I’d be a murderer.

  Like I know the word vampire is synonymous with the big M for the most part, but I’m not really as bloodthirsty as most of my brethren. No, really. It’s true. My dirty little secret.

  Which wouldn’t be so secret if I snatched up Killer, took him home, and gave him a bath and a saucer of milk. And cuddled up with him on the couch.

  He meowed and did more of the I’m-alone-and-I’m-scared-and-you-are-so-wonderful-for-saving-me blinking.

  “It won’t work. You wouldn’t last five seconds at my place. Trust me. I’m ruthless.”

  Yeah, right, the cat seemed to say.

  “Really, I am. You don’t want to make me mad.” I flashed him a little fang for show, which would have sent most animals running the other way. But the cat simply sat there. Looking at me. Begging me. “I don’t like cuddling.”

  Whadayaknow? Neither do I. Cuddling is for kittens. I’m old. Temperamental. Grouchy.

  “And I don’t like a lot of noise during the day when I’m trying to sleep.”

  As weak as I am, I can barely hold up my head much less make a lot of racket.

  “And keep your hair to yourself because I’m NOT vacuuming up after you.” If there was one thing I hated more than cats and pushy Visa collectors, it was vacuuming. Don’t do it. Don’t like it. Not happening. End of story.

  Sheesh, I’m nearly bald as it is. How much shedding could I actually do?

  “And don’t even think about peeing on any of my rugs.”

  I’m old, not incontinent.

  “Or clawing at the furniture. I don’t actually have a lot of furniture—I only recently moved out of my parents’ place—but what I do have, I cherish.”

  I can barely clean myself, much less scratch. I’m weak. Starving.

  “And,” I added as I stepped forward and scooped up the poor, pathetic thing, “if we’re going to be roommates, you can’t do any pooping on the floor. It’s the litter box or, I swear, I’m shipping you to my uncle Paul.”

  Six

  By the time I walked into Dead End Dating a half hour later (after a stop at the nearby grocery for a carton of milk), it was after ten o’clock and Evie had already left.

  That or she’d grown a zillion zits, a bad haircut, a size twelve foot, and a penis.

  I stopped and eyed the young man sitting at her desk. “Hello?”

  “Yo.” He looked to be about nineteen or twenty. Human. He had dark hair that curled down around his ears and stuck out every which way, a piercing in his right eyebrow, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with black electrical tape wrapped around the nose-piece. He had a headset hooked in his ears. An iPod blasted Disturbed.

  “I’m Lil.”

  He didn’t so much as glance up, his gaze fixed on Evie’s computer terminal. A small set of tools lay open on the desk. “Cool.”

  I motioned around me to the small outer office. “I own this tribute to fabulous decorating skill.”

  “Phat.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  Die Slut had been tattooed on the back of his left hand and Kill the Whore on his right. His fingernails, painted with black nail polish, flew over the keyboard of Evie’s computer. A display of numbers and letters scrolled across the screen. “Word.”

  O-kay. “That, um, wasn’t a comment. See question mark on the end.”

  “Word.”

  “No, really, could you tell me your name?” If he looked up, I could see for myself, but his attention stayed riveted on the computer.

  “Word,” he said, pulling off the earphones. He still didn’t look at me as he shifted his attention to the tool set. He retrieved a tiny screwdriver and reached for a small box that I recognized as a Flash drive. “That’s my name. It blows, doesn’t it?” He started unscrewing the front panel of the drive. “I was named after some old guy that I can’t even remember. My great uncle something or other. I dunno. Never met him.” He set the screwdriver aside and reached for another that was even smaller.

  I set the scrawny cat down on his wobbly legs. He wrapped himself around my ankles and stayed put. One paw rested on the toe of my shoe and my chest hitched. While he was a pain in the ass, he was sort of cute, in a scrawny, half-starved way. And he obviously had superb taste.

  I shifted my attention from the skinny cat to the skinny young man. “What’s your last name?”

  “Dalton.”

  “Ah, so you’re related to Evie.” Evie was my loyal assistant. She could handle five phone lines, an extra large latte, a temperamental computer, and a tube of MAC’s Morning Sunrise all at the same time, and without breaking a sweat. If Evie hadn’t been human, I would have sworn we were Siamese twins separated at birth. The girl definitely had it going on in a major way.

  “She’s my third cousin. I keep hoping she’ll go out with me since we’re so far removed, but she says the idea creeps her out.”

  I had a hunch it was Word himself who creeped her out, but I kept this thought to myself.

  “A rip, isn’t it?” he went on. “What with her being so fine and me being such a genius, we could make one hot match.”

  “Or an interesting episode of Dr. Phil.”

  He turned back to the drive. “You’re funny. You’re pretty hot, too.”

  I already knew that, but what I really wanted to know was how he knew it since he hadn’t so much as glanced my way.

  Look at me. I sent out the silent thought, but he didn’t glance up. Hell-o? Look. At. Me.

  His head wobbled. Atta boy. He slid a look my way. Come on, you can do it. Our eyes connected. Bingo!

  Word Dalton. Nineteen and three quarters. He liked listening to music—particularly the undeniably nonPC “Die Slut” and “Kill the Whore.” He liked chugging beer and playing his PSP and chugging beer and working on computers and chugging beer. He wasn’t technically a virgin, but he was close. For reasons completely unknown to him, of course, on account of he thought he was a pretty hot guy and he aimed to please, which was why he’d gotten his penis pierced—

  Ugh. I soooo didn’t need that visual.

  “You want to go out sometime?” He shifted his attention back to his work, grabbed a cord, and plugged the flash drive into the main computer as he waited for my answer.

  “Let me guess. Chug some beer and maybe catch a Die Slut show?”

  He stared at me with the same awe men used when I vamped them. “You like Die Slut?”

  Not in this eternity. I smiled. “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “Rad.” He grinned. “So you wanna go?”

  Uh, no. I was a vampire. He was food. I should rip his throat out or something equally vicious.

  I contemplated the murderous thought for a nanosecond before a shudder ripped through me.

  Oh, all right. I’ll admit it. I’m only batting two out of three when it comes to Super Vamp must-haves. I stared at his hopeful expression, his desperate eyes. Just like the cat.

  Not that I was taking him home, mind you. One stray was one too many. But I couldn’t squash his hopes and dreams just like that.

  I smiled. “Obviously, I would love to, if I didn’t already have a boyfriend.” Well, I did. Ash had referred to me as the closest thing to Tag’s girlfriend, which would make him the closest thing to my boyfriend. Sort of. “But if a date is what you’re interested in, you’re certainly in the right place.”

  “I don’t pay for dates.”

  I didn’t have to be a mind-reading ultra vamp to know that was a load of bull. “So what are you doing?”

  “Installing a flash drive. After that, I’ll be upgrading and then you’re good to go.” />
  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me until you’ve seen the bill. I take all major credit cards and cash. Or we can talk alternative payment solutions.”

  I smiled. “Perfect. I’m definitely up for a little trade.”

  His head whipped around so fast that I felt certain he’d given himself whiplash. “Really?” His eyes bugged out and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “Absolutely.” I smiled. “I’ll give you a free profile complete with two potential matches.”

  The eyes retreated back into his head. “I’d rather have sex with you.”

  “You and the rest of the heterosexual male population.” I leveled a stare at him. “You’re sweet, in a pierced, tattooed sort of way. And I’m sure you’re brilliant. But it’s not happening.” I smiled again. “Not with me, that is. But I’ll make sure your two matches are die-hard Die Slut fans.” He seemed to think. “I’ll even make it three matches if you’ll hook up a docking station for my iPod.” I did have an entire stack of cards from Manhattan’s Most Wanted (not that any of them had probably heard of Die Slut, but I would cross that bridge later). Since they were all women, I needed to find an equal number of men.

  I eyed Word.

  He wasn’t exactly my ideal in the testosterone department, but with a good shampoo and some acne cream, he just might do.

  “Three real dates?”

  I nodded.

  “In the same year?”

  “In the same month,” I told him. “This month.”

  “You’re shittin’ me, right?”

  “Not at all. I’m Manhattan’s latest and greatest when it comes to matchmakers. I’m also a personal hygiene consultant and part-time wardrobe specialist, both of which,” I quickly added, “come with the profile.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “I haven’t had three dates in a single year, let alone the same month.”

  Why didn’t this surprise me? I smiled. “Consider it done.” I reached into Evie’s top drawer and pulled out a new client packet. “Just fill out this questionnaire when you finish up and we’ll get started right away.”

  He shoved his glasses back up on his nose and his gaze swiveled to the Krispy Kreme station set up a few feet away.

  I’d started offering free doughnuts with every profile several months ago as a temporary promotion. I’d tried at least a dozen others since—breath mints, pens, mugs, condoms—but nothing had gone over quite as well. The doughnuts were now a permanent fixture, along with coffee, tea, and the occasional insulin injection.

  “Can I have a doughnut, too?” Word asked.

  “If you hook up the speakers that go with the docking station, you can have the entire box.” Do I know how to bargain or what?

  I picked up Killer, left Word to his computer work, and walked into my office. I set the cat on the floor, opened the small latte I’d picked up, and gave it to the scrawny animal.

  Killer sniffed the lukewarm liquid and wiggled his whiskers before dipping his black head. He started lapping up the goody.

  A sliver of warmth went through me, followed by a grumble of hunger. I retrieved what looked like a wine bottle from my minifridge, settled at my desk, and popped the cork. The ripe scent spiraled through the air and slid into my nostrils and I closed my eyes. The aroma stirred my nerve endings and made my body tingle. I took a long drink, the cold liquid gliding down my throat. I don’t normally like my dinner cold (what vampire did?), but I was having trouble finding a microwave to go with my office decor.

  Lame, huh? But it’s all I had at the moment and it was a thousand times better than the truth: that I was desperately hoping I would eventually get used to the cold stuff. Then maybe, just maybe I could forget the warm, sweet taste of Ty’s blood and stop craving it.

  Stop craving him.

  Geez, I’d been doing just fine before I’d met the guy. I’d been the bottle queen. No playing Name That Blood Type as I passed cute guys on the street. I’d been happy. Or at least content. I’d had the utmost confidence that my own Count Right would come around someday.

  But then Ty had walked into my life and now all I could think about was sinking my fangs into him again. And having sex with him. And sinking my fangs into him while I was having sex with him.

  Not that I would. No. I was so over him.

  Or I would be just as soon as I reassured myself that he was okay. I needed closure. Then I could totally and completely forget him. I could enjoy my dinner again, and my afterlife would be back to normal.

  Hey, it could happen.

  I turned my attention to my computer, opened my e-mail account, and stared at my overflowing in-box. I’d just clicked on my first message when the phone rang. My eyes snagged on the latest Victoria’s Secret offer—ten dollars off and free body butter—as I snatched up the phone.

  “Thank you for calling Dead End Dating, where your perfect match is just a Visa, Mastercard, or Discover swipe away.” It wasn’t the greatest slogan, but my business was still fairly new and I was testing the waters.

  “What about American Express?” A familiar female voice asked, and my heart jumped into my throat.

  My gaze swiveled to the caller ID display. My mother’s phone number blazed back at me and dread rolled through me.

  Uh-oh.

  Seven

  Way to go, Lil.

  I gave myself a mental kick in the ass for not checking the caller ID before picking up the phone and then fought down a wave of guilt.

  She was my mother. She hadn’t endured hours and hours of labor to bring me into this world so that I could avoid her—which I did whenever possible be cause she drove me nuts. The woman gave me an afterlife. The least—the very least—I could do was talk to her. Especially since I couldn’t exactly hang up without her knowing it and heaping more misery on me later.

  I pasted on a smile (just in case Big Brother turned out to be Big Mama) and remembered my game plan for just this type of situation. Single syllable answers. Do not engage. She would get frustrated and hang up and I’d be home free.

  “Um, hi, Mom.”

  “So do you take American Express or not?”

  “No.” Definitely one syllable. “Not yet.”

  “Oh, well, it makes no never mind.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I just thought I would ask since your father prefers I use the American Express to avoid the monthly percentages of our other credit cards, but he’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “Deal with what?” Wait. Did I just engage?

  “I want to hire you, dear.”

  I’d engaged, all right. What’s worse, I heard myself do it again. “You want to hire me?” I remembered the Moe’s uniform currently doing time in my hall closet—lime-green polo shirt, beige Dockers—and cringed.

  Moe’s is the family business. We’re talking copy machines. We’re talking printing services. We’re talking major yuck.

  “I already told you, I’m not working for Dad. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I have bigger aspirations than replacing the toner in a copy machine or collating some guy’s thesis paper.”

  “While I can’t imagine a more successful enterprise than Moe’s—your brothers are all managers and they adore it—that’s not what I’m calling about.”

  Phew, that was close.

  “I need a matchmaker.”

  What?

  My heart gave a panicked ka-thumpety-thump. “But you already have Dad.” I opened my mouth and the words poured out, tumbling over each other as anxiety washed over me. “You’ve been committed for five hundred and twenty-two years. I’m sure that whatever he did, you can work it out. You can’t just throw away half a millennium because he squeezes the toothpaste from the middle or pops open a beer can with his fangs. It’s the quirky things that make him special—”

  “Lilliana,” my mother tried to cut in, but I was already on a roll, freaked with the possibility that my mother might actually be leaving my father. Breaking things off. Moving in w
ith me.

  “You can’t,” I blurted. “I know Dad can be a pain, but he doesn’t mean to be. He’s just eccentric. And pompous. And maybe a little snotty. But he can’t help it on account of how he was raised and—”

  “Lilliana Arabella Guinevere du Marchette,” she snapped and just like that I morphed from a fantabulous, well-dressed businesswoman into a fantabulous, well-dressed five-year-old.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m not leaving your father, though I can’t say I haven’t thought about it. Since Viola stole his chain-saw—the one he usually uses to cut down the azalea bushes—he’s been a man possessed. He’s hired a former Navy SEAL for a search and rescue. They’re meeting out in the pool house as we speak.”

  “They’re going to break into Viola’s house?”

  “The SEAL, not your father. At least, I think he’s a SEAL. Maybe your father said veal, and I just misheard him.”

  “Why would Dad hire a small calf to go up against a werewolf?”

  “Who knows? I told you. He’s possessed. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  “Why doesn’t he just buy another chainsaw?” A majorly stupid question to which I already knew the answer. My dad was a born vampire and Viola wasn’t. The reputation of the entire race—as fearless, superior, condescending bloodsuckers—depended on his recovery of that one power tool.

  “It isn’t the chainsaw. It’s the principle of the thing.” What’d I tell ya? “She waltzed right in and took it out from under him. Speaking of which, he’s checked every entrance, every security camera, and he still can’t figure out how she got into the garage.”

  “She is a werewolf.”

  “That means she’s hairy, not invisible. Your father has spent hours staring at the video surveillance and there’s nothing. Just the normal comings and goings of you and your brothers. Our friends.”

  I.e., bats. In particular, a pink one.

  Guilt rifled through me.

  See, Viola didn’t actually steal my father’s chain-saw.