I turned to face my prospective employer.
The sardonic grin left my lips.
The image of an old guy with white hair faded.
The blood in my heart ceased to pump.
The breath in my lungs stilled.
I stared up into his eyes.
He stared down into mine.
Words would not form. Speech would not come. If I so much as tried to talk, I knew I would have simply babble. The drool alone would have been prohibitive.
I’d been about to answer my potential employer’s question with a light It takes a lot more than Morticia Addams to scare…uh, what was my name again?
Because when our eyes met…I…I…ah, hell, I don’t remember. I only know that whatever I had expected him to look like, it sure wasn’t this.
Jonathan Van Graf looked to be my age, give or take a few hundred years. He was tall, many inches taller than I, and good-looking in an action hero sort of way, especially with that dark hair, those blue eyes, and them damn sexy gold-rimmed glasses. Even in tailored gray slacks, a thin black belt, and white fitted shirt, it was easy to see his body was—all right, I confess yummy is the word that comes to mind, and let me tell you, sister, I haven’t had a good meal in a long, long time.
Trying to regain control of my senses, I stumbled, “Leech? Me? Scare? No. No, but, like, well…you…I…we…who, she? I mean she, or you, rather, um, as for me, uh, I…I…I…”
I rambled, sounding as though I’d just stepped off the train from Witless Junction and all I had in my suitcase were pronouns.
As I stood there, apparently incapable of constructing a coherent sentence, he grinned as though he had a secret. A wonderful, really funny secret.
There was surely a throne somewhere on Mount Olympus missing a god.
Either unaware of or unfazed by my reaction to him, the hunky doctor chuckled. “Leech frightens many people, but I promise she’s harmless.” Lifting his hand, he adjusted is glasses.
Sigh.
I don’t know, maybe it’s the Superman/Clark Kent thing, but broad-shouldered myopic heartthrobs turn my tummy all mushy. Okay, okay, full disclosure: Not exactly my tummy. A little farther south, if you get my meaning.
I offered my hand in greeting, but more, to have something to hang on to if my knees buckled. “I’m Stephanie Scott. Very nice to meet you, Dr. Van Graf. I appreciate the opportunity to interview for this job.”
His fingers wrapped around mine, warm, strong. He looked at me with eyes so utterly blue, they were nearly translucent; I was transfixed.
My lids drifted down.
I felt wobbly.
Cellulite apparently has the tensile strength of wet Kleenex because my thighs seemed to be turning to jelly a tad short on pectin.
I realize that’s too many metaphors, but my brain was incapable at the moment of editing my remarks. Confused as to what was going on, I sucked in enough air to fill the Hindenburg and then shook my head to try and put all the marbles back where they belonged.
Would the damn metaphors never end?
I shook my head again.
He opened the door wider—no doubt to accommodate what my mother often referred to as my good-breeding-stock hips.
Van Graf smiled. “Step into my office, won’t you?” Said the spider to the fly.
Afraid to meet his eyes again, I inched past him into the study. He hadn’t yet released my hand. My heart began to flutter.
“Please, have a seat.” He relaxed his grip, allowing me to retake possession of my hand.
“Thank you, Dr. Van Graf.”
When he indicated the leather wing chair next to his desk, I sat.
“Please, not so formal.” He dropped into his desk chair. “In my practice, patients call me Dr. Van Graf. To my students at the university, I’m usually Professor Van Graf. At home here in Moonrise Manor, it’s just Doc.” He leaned forward, meeting my eyes with his steady gaze. “Close friends and intimates simply call me Jon.”
I blinked at him as my brain screamed, Too many options, too many options!
I wasn’t his patient, or a student, or his BFF, so I supposed this was his roundabout way of letting me know I would be considered staff, and therefore Doc would do? None of his suggestions fit the bill. The only thing I was interested in calling him right now was Full-time Employer.
As the silence between us lengthened, he picked up what was obviously a copy of my resume. “Well, then. Let’s get down to it, shall we?”
Yes. Yes we shall. Whatever he wanted to get down to, we should get to it right now. The nitty-gritty of my visit, the interview portion of our meeting was about to begin.
Hope blossomed in my heart like the first rose of spring. I can do this. I can get this job.
Sitting there, facing the handsome, sexy-as-hell, wealthy doctor, inside my head I heard those three words every woman longs to hear: You are hired. Followed by: When can you start? The frosting on the employment cake being: I want to pay you a lot of money.
Instead, he said, “Before we begin…”
I felt my burgeoning rose freeze in its tracks.
“I want to make sure the agency informed you that I am a Vampire.”
The petals of my rose shivered and shrank, turned moldy, and fell off.
“Yes.” My reply was matter-of-fact. “They were absolutely clear about that.”
He smiled as he adjusted his glasses. “Though I always explain to new acquaintances that I am as human as anyone and they have nothing to fear from me, some people are skeptical as to my assurances.”
“Not me,” I lied. Hell, at this point, I’d take a job at Kill All the Dolphins or Mothers Against Pristine Forests if it would get me a steady paycheck and benefits.
I must have had that fight-or-flight look in my eyes (I learned a long time ago I can’t play poker; my expression gives me away every time) because he raised his hands, palms toward me like a mime trapped behind an invisible wall. His impromptu gesture gave me a clear view of his ring finger, which was devoid of a band of gold.
Again my heart fluttered. Handsome…sexy-as-hell…rich…doctor…available. All my mother’s husband-material-for-Stephanie dreams fulfilled in one hot package. So to speak.
“I apologize,” he said. “I can see the Vampire thing really does bother you. And then there’s Leech. She is a bit—”
“Yes,” I rushed, willing away his potent effect on me. “She is.” I threw in a short laugh to convince him I was in on the joke. Hell, maybe I could give Meryl Streep a run for her money.
Human/Vampire/Doctor Van Graf/Professor Van Graf/Doc/Jon shrugged. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her,” he insisted, “but Leech has a great sense of humor. Very droll.” Raising his brows, he nodded emphatically. “She’s a riot at a party.”
Uh-huh. A lynch party.
“Let me just cut to the chase,” he said, setting my resume aside. “I don’t know how much the agency told you, but Leech has been my housekeeper-slash-secretary-slash-factotum for years, but she has to leave…”
Slash? Why slash? Why not hyphen? Hyphens never conjured up images of Jack the Ripper.
“…the timing for me couldn’t be worse,” he continued, “so I need to replace her as soon as possible.”
“Timing?”
“Yes. She’s scheduled to leave as soon as possible. Whomever I hire will have to learn Leech’s household duties and the rest very quickly.”
“The rest?” Like dust the dirt in your coffin?
Just as I was relaxing a bit, there went my nerves again.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Wouldn’t you know, I have a houseful of guests, Hollywood types who arrived yesterday, and since I can’t be with them the whole time they’re here, Leech was to see to their comfort and continue running the household.”
“And that would be my job.”
“Yes.” He sat back in his desk chair. “Have you ever worked as a housekeeper?”
“Not professionally.”
; “Secretary?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Admin or personal assistant?”
I considered my views regarding lying on job interviews, but since I’d basically been self-employed since graduating college, in truth, I was not only not qualified for this job, I wasn’t qualified for any job.
Leaning forward, I gave him a wide smile. “Here’s the thing, you see. While I’ve cared for my own house, typed business letters, and been my own admin, and while I have all those skills, the only letter of recommendation I can give you is my word that, if you’ll give me a chance to prove myself, I’m sure you’ll see I learn quickly, work hard, and am efficient.”
He eyed me for a moment. “I don’t see it on your resume, but the agency informed me you are a published author.”
“Was,” I quickly corrected him. “I was an author.”
“But you do have several books out, yes?”
“I do. Yes. Well, did. Well, do, if you count Amazon and used book stores. It’s been over three years since my last book was published.”
My last book ever, I thought, but did not add.
“I confess,” he said, “I don’t believe I’ve read anything you’ve written.”
Based on my last royalty check, you’re not the only one, pal.
I smiled and said lightly, “Oh, pshaw. No apology necessary. So many books; so little time and all that.”
“May I ask what it is you write?”
I licked my lips. “Um, I wrote cozy romantic mysteries.”
He picked up a pen and pad from his desk. “Under your own name? Can you suggest a couple of titles so I can give you a read?”
My heart jolted. He wanted to read one of my books?
Clearing my throat, I said, “I’m sure someone such as yourself wouldn’t find my stories very interesting. They’re mostly for women, you see. They’re romances and—”
“Men like romance.”
Silence. I think my lashes fluttered, but I can’t be sure. I know I averted my gaze, looked down to study my fingernails.
I heard him say, “Take me for example…” To my bowed head, he continued softly, “I’m a man…and…I…like romance.”
I looked up, prepared to respond, but the words died in my throat. Many days, I’m the queen of brilliant comebacks, but apparently not today. I was completely at a loss as to what to say to him.
Van Graf pushed his glasses up on his nose. “You were going to give me a couple of titles?”
Normally, I love talking about writing and how I came to be published, about my plots and why I chose them. But I didn’t want to talk to this man about any of that, and I certainly didn’t want him reading my books.
Every insecurity I had started gnawing away at my already-facedown-in-the-dirt confidence and my lost sense of literary self-worth.
Few men read romance novels; fewer men got them. He would open my book, flip through the pages. Fluff. Typical bodice ripper. Yawn. Hardly worthy of my time.
I knew that’s what he’d think; it’s what they all thought.
I’m not sure why I cared what he thought, though, but for some reason, it was important to me that I have his respect.
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “My first book was Debby Destiny, Private Eye: The Magnolia Murders.” Like, you-want-to-make-something-of-it-buster? “It’s about a female private detective—“
“The titular Debby Destiny?”
“Yes. Titular Debby. That’s sure how I think of her.”
He lifted his brows as though expecting me to elaborate.
So I elaborated. “Debby is hired by a retired Southern schoolteacher and a former district court judge to solve a series of killings at the senior center where they live. And in doing so, they fall in love.”
“Debby and—”
“Oh, my no. The schoolteacher and the judge.”
“Ah.”
Carefully, I watched his face for the smirk I just knew would come. Instead, he smiled and jotted down the title. “Sounds charming. Any others?”
Was he genuinely interested or just being polite?
“Thank you,” I managed. “Well, let’s see. The next book was Debby Destiny, Private Eye: Arsenic and Hemlock and Strychnine, Oh My.”
“That one’s about poisons, I trust?” He grinned into my eyes.
Dammit, cut that out! Why aren’t you gagging like most of the other men I’ve met? You’re getting me all discombobulated.
“Poisons?” I repeated. “Um, yes. Good call. See, a retired bookkeeper and a former tax auditor hire Debby to solve a series of murders in the small town where they live. And in doing so, they, uh, you know, like in the other book, fall in love.”
“Are all your books about Debby Destiny?”
“Yes. All ten. There are…there were, ten.”
“Does Debby herself ever fall in love?”
“No. She’s sort of like Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple in that regard.”
“A spinster?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I had more than one argument with Agatha about that. I always thought she should let Miss Marple find love and happiness, in the end.”
Dr. Van Graf had known Agatha Christie? My God, she’d died in 1976 at the age of 85. Was Van Graf joking, or had he indeed been Dame Agatha’s contemporary? If so, that would make him well over a hundred years old—yet he didn’t appear to be a day over forty, and a young forty at that.
Before I could question him about it, he added, “Even fictional characters deserve, especially beloved ones, to end up happily, don’t you think?”
“It’s a matter of art imitating life,” I murmured. “Real life people often end up, um, alone. Miss Marple and Debby Destiny are more focused on crime solving. It’s how they obtain emotional fulfilment.”
I left it at that. To continue would open more wounds than I was prepared to expose at the moment.
He straightened. E
“Do any of Debby’s adventures include Vampires?”
Like, as if.
Rather than answer, I shook my head.
“Public opinion is still quite harsh regarding my people. I need to know how you, as a potential member of my staff, stand on the issue. Tell me honestly,” he said softly. “How do you feel about Vampires? Love us, hate us, get us, fear us?”
Leaning forward, his attention was fully on me.
His eyes held a challenge.
He was testing me.
Would I pass and be hired?
Or would I fail and risk not only losing the job, but my life as well?
Chapter 3
I considered his question and how conflicted I was about Vampires.
Fact: They existed.
Fact: They were integrated into society.
Fact: They sucked the life out of humans, or at least, used to.
Fact: That’s all I really knew about them.
“Okay,” I began. “Here’s what I think. A vampire is a regular person who’s bitten by a vampire. Once you’re bitten, you become immortal and are referred to as the undead, but since you’re technically dead, you can’t be rekilled in the usual way.”
I raised a brow and looked at him for verification. He gave none, but simply said, “Please go on.”
I blew out a breath. “Yeah, so, vampires are immortal as long as they have a constant supply of fresh blood, therefore they’re always searching for mammalian sources, which can be either people or animals—wolves seem to be a popular choice. Vampires can only come out at night because sunlight makes them shrivel up into prunes. Victims are helpless against their physical and mental powers, but a person can hold a vampire at bay by using the sign of the cross—either a little one dangling on a necklace, or two crossed candlesticks. Ice cream sticks would probably work, too, though I’d be nervous trying that one.”
Across from me, Professor Van Graf’s face remained interested, but unreadable.
“Garlic,” I hurried on, “seems t
o keep them at arm’s length, as it does most of the men I’ve dated. They sleep in coffins that contain dirt from their homeland—uh, vampires, not the men I’ve dated.” I shrugged. “Mostly.”
“Anything else?” he said, his eyes curiously bright.
I tilted my head and let my gaze wander to the window. “Hmm, yes, a couple of other things,” I mused. “They can turn into bats in order to fly through large, screenless bedroom windows carelessly left open, while nubile young women in flimsy nightwear lay sleeping with their necks and, more importantly, their cleavage exposed. Vampires are either Nosferatu ugly or Hugh Jackman hot, depending on whether the heroine is supposed to be repulsed by the vampire or have monkey sex with him.”
“Interesting,” was his only response. “I can see you’ve given this a great deal of thought.”
I snickered. “Not really. Everything I know about vampires I learned from old movies.”
He slid me a sidelong look. “The classics, such as those that used theremin music.”
I just about popped out of my chair. “You know what that is?”
He chuckled, adjusted his glasses. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, there isn’t much that gets by. Besides, Léon was a friend of mine.”
Wow. He’d known Christie and Theramin? Dr. Jon Van Graf really got around.
Where was he from? When was he from? Van Graf sounded German or Dutch or something; could that give me a clue to his origins, if not his year of birth?
Does he have superhuman strength? Can he morph into a bat or some other menacing creature? Does he sleep in a coffin filled with the soil of his homeland? Did he need a supply of fresh blood to sustain his existence?
Was he immortal?
I wanted to ask him so many things, but he was the interviewer and I the interviewee. It wasn’t my place to quiz him—but I have an inquiring—not to mention nervous mind—and I wanted to know.
Swallowing, I said, “Can I ask you some personal questions? It might help me better understand—”
“Perhaps another time,” he interrupted. “Today is a bit of a rush.”
He was putting me off, and we both knew it. Then, tenting his fingers in front of chin, he said, “I will say only that your impressions are incorrect. Vampires do not have special powers, nor do we enslave victims, resurrecting them from the dead as newly minted Vampires. These misperceptions are not your fault. They are unfair stereotypes perpetuated by tawdry novels and fantastical films. It’s those myths this docudrama is intended to dispel.”
Dead is the New Black Page 2
