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The Vampire’s Protector
by Michele Hauf
Chapter 1
Summer Santiago followed the scent of dust and dirt down the hallway of a nineteenth-century brownstone nestled in the middle of the tiny Italian village of Cella Monte. The place had been shuttered up and locked for decades. She’d been told so by the village sindaco—the mayor—who had given her a key after she’d explained she wanted to conduct some historical research. She’d flashed her credentials indicating she was an archaeologist who worked for Rutgers University.
Of course, she had neglected to mention that the research project did not exist. And that she was not an archaeologist. The credentials were a clever forgery. So she’d also touched his neck, with the excuse she was shooing away a bug. But in those seconds of skin-on-skin contact she had used her vampiric persuasion to convince the mayor to cooperate with her and hand over the key.
Persuasion, or the ability to enthrall a mortal, came in handy for her job. As a Retriever for Acquisitions, a division of the greater Council that oversaw the paranormal nations, she tracked down and obtained objects of magical or volatile nature and handed them over to the Archives for storage.
This mission rated a mere two on Summer’s scale. One being easy-peasy, ten heart-thumping challenging. Find and seize a violin that had once belonged to the famed composer and musician Nicolo Paganini. The violin was supposed to possess magical power. Possibly even a curse placed upon it by the devil Himself. The electronic dossier Summer had received for the retrieval had been sketchy at best. What little she knew was that rumors hailing from the nineteenth century told if Paganini were to have played the instrument all hell would have been unleashed.
Apparently, that had never happened, because the world was still relatively the same as it had been in the nineteenth century. It did not abound with creatures from Hell—or Beneath, as Summer and other paranormals referred to that dark and demonic realm. Not to say that demons and other nasties didn’t inhabit the Mortal Realm; they did. But they had insinuated themselves amongst the varied mortal population.
A man who valued all instruments, Paganini had designated in his will this particular violin be destroyed following his death. Good call. But for some reason it had instead been hidden away.
The home where the violin had been last seen, according to the Acquisition’s dossier, had been sitting untouched for over seventy years.
Summer turned the knob on an inner door and opened it wide to a gaping blackness. A chill as cold as winter crept over her skin. A shiver lifted the hairs on her arm. With a thought, she adjusted her body temperature and took a few steps downward into the darkness. Vampires were crafty like that. Able to regulate their body temperature with but a thought. Came in handy during the winter. She hated the cold. If ever a job in a tropical clime were offered in the winter she’d jump at it.
But she did love a good creepy adventure.
As she descended the stairs, the wood steps creaked in protest until her purple Chuck Taylors landed on a dirt floor. Darkness sweatered her, and while her sight was excellent, in the absence of light even vampires needed a bit of help. She tugged out her iPhone from her jeans pocket and turned on the flashlight. The beam fell across the imprints her shoes had left in the thick dust on the stairs behind her.
She was accustomed to decrepit old buildings. She’d grown up with a brother who had liked to explore the darkest, dankest, creepiest of places. And since Johnny had always offered to babysit her when their parents needed the help, Summer had explored right alongside him. Now she was drawn to the unknown and mysterious. And it wasn’t just buildings, but also experiences and people.
Vampires were not inherently evil. It was difficult enough to deal with the fact she’d been born different from all the other vampires—someone who imparted madness into her donors’ psyches every time she pierced them with her fangs. But she was coping. Mostly.
Summer floated her fingers across the gold-and-emerald flocked damask wallpaper as she strode down the dirt-floored hallway. The walls were sheetrocked for some distance. Then the paper ended, as the smooth walls segued into dirt. Or rather—she pressed a palm to the cold, dry surface—limestone.
Were she descending into the catacombs beneath Paris, not much would be different. Just another adventure spook-out with her brother. Except they avoided the touristy Catacombs in the 14th arrondissement and only ventured into the forbidden tunnels frequented by cataphiles.
With a smile in anticipation for whatever delicious surprises awaited in the dark, she wandered forward and downward as the floor slanted. The narrow aisle suddenly turned right and opened into a room stuffed to the ceiling with boxes and crates. She flashed the light beam across an old wicker dressmaker’s dummy. Headless, it was also, sadly, naked. What looked like two chairs from the Louis XV time period, upholstered with pale pink damask, were stacked in one corner with no regard for their value. Every spot on the walls was covered with paintings depicting portraits of men, women and even a few dogs.
“Interesting.” But she wasn’t into art. Or dogs. Especially the werewolf kind. Okay, so she made an exception for her grandfather, Rhys Hawkes, who was half vampire, half werewolf. As well, her uncle Trystan was full werewolf.
The flashlight beam swayed from side to side in the room before her. She was looking for clothing on racks. Nothing. Summer sighed. She always got her hopes up when exploring old storage rooms such as this one. Wasn’t like she’d expected this mission to actually provide the bonus of vintage clothing. She favored a pretty man’s frock coat or jackboots. The dresses and flouncy stuff never interested her. Leather pants or jeans and a T-shirt—as she wore today—were her usual choices.
Tucking the phone into her pants front pocket so the flashlight end beamed out, Summer strode about the tiny open space corralled in the center by all the gathered treasures.
A hobby horse sat to her left. The red leather seat was worn and cracked from frequent use. She tapped the dusty rope mane, thinking how children from the past would be stupefied by today’s young, who would likely run right past the wooden horse and straight for any electronic gadgets. Plant themselves in a chair and look up only when their mothers called for lunch.
She loved her electronics, but was very choosey about who she friended on social media. She did have a Facebook page, but it was strict
ly for family and very few friends. She didn’t pin pictures on electronic boards, nor did she Tweet about what she had for lunch. Because really? No one needed to know she’d had A positive for lunch yesterday.
And she was feeling a bit peckish. She’d have to make a stop for a snack before she hit the road home for Paris.
Focusing her search, she lifted the cover from a cigar box and peered inside. No silver coins but plenty of rusted straight pins. She put the cover back and spun to sit on a gray velvet divan. A cloud of dust frothed about her, and she quickly stood, having forgotten the perils of such ancient conditions. Waving her hands to clear the dust, she choked and coughed.
Good thing her allergies were only to demons.
Next to her butt print on the divan sat a jewelry box. She pulled it onto the cleared velvet, knowing it wouldn’t contain a violin, but being a slave to curiosity, and flipped up the heavy cover. Inside lay a few diamond necklaces and rings. She wasn’t much for the sparkly stuff, preferring the simple hematite band she wore on her thumb. A gift from her dad, Vaillant, who preferred flashy silver jewelry himself.
“Bet these are worth a new Audi,” she said of the jewels.
Alas, she didn’t need another car. And she was not a thief, and nothing inside this home belonged to her. The items she was sent to retrieve on missions were taken, though. By gift or by force. Whatever means necessary. For reasons humans could never comprehend. The items the Retrievers tracked were deemed dangerous and best hidden away from chance human discovery.
Summer would leave everything in this room as she found it and report the contents to the mayor later. If relatives could be found, the items would be returned to them, and if not, perhaps the village would hold an auction. Or perhaps they’d simply abide the dying wish to keep the place sealed off. Had it been because of the contents of this room? Or because of one particular item? Had the owner been aware of the violin’s volatility?
“We’ll never know,” she muttered, and her gaze scanned for something of interest.
Across the room, between an upended jacquard sofa and a stack of large paintings, there looked like a door. Summer tugged out the phone and as she squeezed between stacks of old crates, the light beam fell over an iron ring on a small door that might suit a hobbit.
“The secret passageway,” she said with glee.
Testing the iron ring with a tug, she saw that the iron frame about the door jiggled. After placing the phone in her mouth to direct the light on to what she was doing, she then grabbed the ring with both hands and pressed one foot against the wall beside the door. With some effort, she was able to ease the entire door out of the frame.
Vampires were like that, too. Pretty damn strong when they needed to be.
Though there was too much stuff stacked around to pull the door out and set it aside, she was able to move it to the left and shove it away from the opening, only to realize the inside was more like a small storage closet that went back only about three feet.
Kneeling and creeping forward, she pushed aside a lightweight metal box that might contain documents. Sliding aside a wooden crate stuffed with porcelain-faced dolls, she spied a familiar object tucked beneath an ell of dusty blue fabric.
“A violin case.”
Her heartbeats pounded. Whenever she found her assigned object she had to suppress a squeal of glee. Too girlie. And really, she took more pleasure in a mental pat on the back for a job well done.
The director of Acquisitions, Ethan Pierce, had assigned her this mission because he knew she was a musician. She could play virtually any instrument placed in her hands, but she didn’t practice or keep up with any particular one. Playing music was such a solitary, static thing. An abandoned hobby of hers. She preferred to be out adventuring and getting her hands dirty. Or, give her a car to take apart and she landed on cloud nine, tools in hand, grease smeared across her cheeks.
Yet she had been a good choice for this mission because she’d take the caution necessary when handling the object, the director had stated.
As well, she could appreciate any style of music, not in the least, classical. What kind of geeky fantasy would it be to actually hold Nicolo Paganini’s violin?
Summer slid a palm over the top of the case. It wasn’t hard plastic like most violin cases nowadays, so she carefully lifted the thin, leather case until she could grasp the handle, which was placed center top, and carried it out into the main room, where she could study it. She set the case on a wooden crate and found that only one leather buckle with brass fixings was still intact. And rust crusted over that one. She could easily force it open, but she didn’t want to damage the leather case or break the strap, so she wiggled carefully at the mechanism until finally the strap slipped from the buckle.
“Nice.” Summer pumped her fist in elation. “This is freaking cool.”
It would be insane not to take a look inside. To keep it closed and simply carry it home to Paris and hand over to the Archives? So long, so good to have known you—for a day?
No. She had to look at it. First, to ensure there actually was a violin inside. Second, to touch the instrument the famed violinist had once owned.
Nicolo Paganini had been a remarkable man, lauded by the masses. Summer would go so far as to label him a rock star for the nineteenth century. Gifted beyond belief. Or had he been cursed? The rumors told that Paganini had sold his soul to the devil to play the violin with such spectacular skill. His contemporaries had accused him of being the devil’s familiar, or even a witch’s son.
Modern-day science told a more truthful story. Paganini had been afflicted with a condition called Marfan’s Syndrome, which hadn’t elongated his fingers (as rumors had whispered) but rather had made his connective tissues so flexible as to allow his fingers to span three octaves across the four violin strings and thus create amazingly complicated compositions. Yet to his contemporaries he had seemed to possess superhuman ability.
But if the mission dossier was correct, this violin had not been played. So the deal with the devil could have never been made. Maybe?
Summer would never know the real story without raising the violinist from the dead and asking him herself. And that certainly would never happen. So she’d verify the instrument was intact, hand it over to the Archives and then on to the next job.
The case top lifted with an ominous creak. Inside lay a violin. A black violin. Its condition startled her. The ebony finish gleamed as if it had just been polished with linseed oil and a soft cloth. And the strings!
“They’re tight,” she said with curiosity and a wrinkle of her brow.
She touched each of them in turn—without actually plucking them to produce a tone—E, A, D, G. The string tension was about right from what she remembered the few times she’d played violin when she’d been younger. So tight, it was as if someone had just finished playing it.
“That’s...impossible.”
This Cella Monte home had been sealed for seventy years. The mayor had told her all things inside had remained untouched. Evident from the dusty clutter she’d seen while making her way down to this room. Yet, a violin left to sit so long would certainly show its age. The wood body would dry and likely crack. The fingerboard might even separate from the neck. And the strings would loosen for sure, requiring careful tuning. After so many decades, surely new strings would be needed.
She lifted the instrument, finding it only slightly heavier than the electric version Domingos LaRoque used when he played for Bitter/Sweet. That vampire played in her brother’s band, which combined electric guitars with cello and violin for some truly kick-ass gothic heavy metal. Summer had once owned a classic wood acoustic violin. It was probably stored away in her parents’ mansion, but she hadn’t thought about it since she’d set it aside as a teenager.
The bow sat nestled next to the violin, so she took that out and studied
the bow hairs. They were pristine and off-white and smelled of rosin, but they weren’t thickly coated with the substance. Someone had cared for this lovely prize. Or maybe it had never been played, for the bow hairs were not discolored near either end from repeated use.
Was it really Paganini’s violin? Or simply a family instrument passed down through the ages, of which stories had been concocted about its legacy. And as the generations passed along the tale it had been forgotten which parts of the verbal history about this black violin had been embellished.
Because really? The legend told that on his deathbed Paganini requested this violin be destroyed. It had been tasked to his son to ensure it was done.
Why had it not? And what made Acquisitions believe this particular instrument was the real thing? What was it about this violin that made it a danger to others? Did it possess magic? Had it been magic that had given Paganini his unprecedented skill?
Summer believed in magic. Witchcraft. That was real. Tangible. Explainable. But fantastical bob-bib-be-bo that swirled about a thing with Disney sparkles? Not so much.
She had to remind herself that oftentimes the items she sought appeared innocuous and common.
A stroke of her finger across the violin body glided over the slick, lacquered surface. Did she dare? If she pulled the bow across the strings would the instrument crumble and fall to pieces? Violins actually seemed to improve with age. There were centuries-old Stradivarii that sold for millions at auction. Was this a Strad?
Aiming the flashlight on her cell phone, she checked inside the body of the violin. There wasn’t a paper designating the maker and year, though some writing did show on the curved inner rib. She couldn’t make out what it said. If she had one of those flexible gooseneck tools with a light on the end she could thread it inside the instrument and learn more about it. But even if she could read it, it would likely be in Italian. She spoke and read only French and English.
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