Fangs in Fondant

by Melissa Monroe

  “I don’t think so,” Arthur said with a slow shake of the head. “Cold-blooded killers don’t care what their potential victims like to read, or watch, or enjoy, period. They just think about what they can get out of it. Your little speech at the end there was impressive.”

  “Someone needed to say it.”

  “I agree,” Arthur said. “Which is why you were asked to speak at the wake. Matthew Porter’s burying her here, in the cemetery just out of town. He thinks she’d like that better. He wants you to say a few words.”

  Priscilla floundered. “Why? I mean, we accused him of murder.”

  “And then you caught the real murderer and defended his fiancée while you did it. Like it or not, Priscilla, you’re not a scary monster. You’re a hero.”

  Then Arthur left the room, muttering about needing food, because “some of us can’t get it pumped straight into our veins, thank you very much.” Priscilla burrowed into her nest of covers with a small smile curling her lips.

  A hero, huh? She could grow to like that.

  Epilogue

  Priscilla thought it was a bit of a bleak irony that Kierra Cunningham’s wake was held in the same place she’d intended to marry.

  To her surprise, by the time she arrived for the party at sundown Robshaw Inn was packed with people both familiar and not. She felt a little uncomfortable in her dress, a low-cut thing that Anna had insisted she wear.

  Kierra’s wake was an odd mishmash of masquerade ball and meet and greet. Everyone invited had been asked to come in a favorite monster or movie villain costume. On one level, Priscilla understood that it was something that Kierra would probably have liked. On the other, she was much more of the opinion that death should be a somber thing, and dressing up made her distinctly uncomfortable.

  Matthew Porter greeted her with a smile at the punch bowl, dipping up some of Tobias’ signature cider. He gave her an appreciative once-over that didn’t feel sexual, but more like an artist appraising a work he liked. “Morticia Addams? Nice. I love it.”

  “And what are you supposed to be?” she asked.

  “The hanged man,” he said, tugging at the loose noose he’d hung around his neck. “It’s from a video game. I don’t suppose you play?”

  Priscilla shook her head. “Anything more advanced than a Trac phone baffles me, I’m afraid.”

  Not a problem with all vampires, it seemed. Matthew hadn’t been lying when he said that he knew several. Most of them were teens, permanently frozen at high school age. Apparently, cell phones were now a mandatory accessory for a student. She saw several typing away in the corner.

  He laughed. She couldn’t help but notice the deep, bruise-like mark on his neck where a real rope had cut into his skin. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t scar. If he was unlucky, he’d be stuck explaining to his next girlfriend why he’d tried to commit suicide. She didn’t expect that to be for a while though, so he had time to heal.

  “Are you going to be all right?” she asked. “I understand they put you on suicide watch.”

  His expression darkened for just a moment. “Yeah, they did. I just ... I couldn’t see how I was going to go on, you know? I’ll never find a girl more perfect for me than Kierra was.”

  “Never say never,” Priscilla advised. “Even one lifetime is too long to preclude possibility.”

  Matthew smiled ever so slightly. “I think she would have liked you, if she’d ever gotten to know you. You two sound a lot alike, under all the bluster.”

  Priscilla wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not. She didn’t try to fight it when Matthew wandered off, going to meet with another friend in the crowd. An unfamiliar man and woman approached her next. She offered them both a glass of punch and a sad smile. She knew who they must be, even though she didn’t know their names.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, is there anything else I can get for you?”

  Kierra’s parents had not adhered to dress code and simply wore black formalwear, as if they were attending a traditional funeral. Mr. Cunningham looked too grief stricken to speak. It was Mrs. Cunningham that answered her.

  “No, dear. We just wanted to tell you how grateful we are that you found the culprit. At least Kierra can rest in peace knowing her murderer was caught.”

  “Thank you,” she said, unsure of what else would be appropriate. “And I’m very sorry for your loss. No parent should ever have to outlive their child.”

  That was enough to send Mr. Cunningham over the edge. Tears spilled over and he began to cry. Mrs. Cunningham pushed him toward the door with a polite but firm grip on his shoulder. Priscilla watched them go, wondering what else she could say. There were no words to adequately describe what she felt in that moment. Her words had fallen miserably short when she’d given a short speech at the funeral. People had taken it well enough, but it didn’t seem like much in the face of what had been lost.

  Nearby, Anna was trying to conceal how much she enjoyed the party, even as she dished out cake to the guests. The wedding cake didn’t go to waste, and neither did the food that Olivia had so dutifully provided. The guests laughed and danced and generally behaved as if they were at a birthday, not a funeral.

  Priscilla was pulled from her thoughts by the arrival of another familiar face. Tobias Kennedy approached the table with a man she vaguely recognized. After a minute of thought, she remembered seeing his profile on the night she’d walked to Olivia’s home. This must be the mystery man that Tobias had been negotiating with.

  “And here she is,” Tobias announced jovially. “The lady of the hour.”

  Priscilla offered him a cup of punch. “That would be Kierra, Tobias. Not me.”

  “So humble,” Tobias said, elbowing the man in the ribs. “See? Didn’t I tell you she was great?”

  “You did,” the man said. He had a nice, sonorous voice. It made her instantly distrust him. In her experience, well-dressed, smooth-talking men were usually snake-oil salesmen or wannabe Casanovas. The look he was giving her didn’t help that impression.

  “I like your dress, Miss Pratt,” he finally said. “I think we match.”

  Indeed, they did. The man had dressed himself in Gomez Addams’ trademark suit. He hadn’t shaved off his rather pointy beard to match the look, however.

  “So we do,” she said dryly. “Was there something you needed, Tobias?”

  “Just punch,” he said, giving her a smile that exposed all of his golden teeth. “And I wanted to make an introduction. Priscilla, this is Joseph Reed, a television executive who plans to shoot in Bellmare next year.”

  “Charmed.”

  “Oh, not yet,” the man said with a devilish grin. “I can be very charming when I want to.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please get a glass, Mr. Reed, or move along. You’re holding up the line.”

  “I was actually hoping you’d join me for a dance,” Joseph said. “I asked Tobias to take your place for the time being and Matthew agreed.”

  Of course he had. Joseph Reed did indeed look like the sort of person who could convince a beggar to part with his last coin. It wouldn’t have been hard to sway Matthew, distracted as he was.

  “All right then,” she said, surrendering with poor grace. “One dance.”

  “That’s all I need.”

  He swept her into his arms easily, and they joined a throng of moving bodies on the improvised dance floor. The beat was slow, and Joseph led her in a traditional waltz, rather than swaying to and fro like so many couples were doing.

  “Where did you learn the waltz?” she wondered aloud.

  He gave her an enigmatic smile. “A man in my position needs to know many things.”

  She sighed. “Can we cut to the chase? What do you want from me, Mr. Reed?”

  He chuckled. “Good. I like a woman who’s direct. I’ll get to it then. I want to film a story about you, Priscilla.”

  “No. I’m not glamorizing the death of a girl for your gain,” she said.

  He waved a hand dismis
sively. “Not about this. About you. As I understand it, you’re over 300 years old. And you’ve had interactions with the supernatural before, according to what I hear. Is it true you have a faerie godmother? In any case, it’s a lot of material to cover. I could do ten seasons and still have material to cover. Vampire autobiographies are all the rage now. I want to get ahead of the curve before they become passé.”

  “Try someone who’s actually lived an interesting life,” she said. “Like Sebastian Blair.”

  Sebastian had become a minor celebrity after he’d come out with tell-all books three years ago. The man had an uncanny knack for gravitating towards people and places that became historically significant. Parliament hadn’t been happy about it, but after legalizing vampires as citizens of the United States, they couldn’t actually infringe on his right to free speech. So the book tours continued. Movie companies were fighting over the rights to the stories.

  “I want you,” he pressed. “A small-town American girl who struggled through adversity. How many centuries was it before you were treated fairly as a woman, let alone a vampire? That’s what my audience wants to see.”

  “Well, you’ll have to find someone else to tell their story. I’m not interested, Mr. Reed.”

  There were too many secrets in Bellmare that needed to remain buried. She wasn’t unearthing the past, for fear something undead might crawl up from the dirt to bite her right in the behind.

  He frowned and turned her in an elegant spin. “I plan to be persistent, Miss Pratt. This isn’t over. I’ll sway you yet.”

  Priscilla bared her fangs in a smile. “That’s fine, Mr. Reed. After all, I have nothing but time.”

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