The Librarian's Vampire Assistant, Book 4

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Now, I do not know what to think. It took centuries to bring myself back from being the Executioner, and when I did, I had to learn to coexist with my demons, mostly by continuing to feel nothing. And then she came into my life. A librarian with so many books. And first editions. Sigh… And a heart of fire. And a body of sin. Then you took her from me, and now I find you took more: five years of my child’s life.

  I shake my head. So if anyone is listening, I ask you to fucking give her to me. “Please, I do not know what it means to have her, but I know I need her.” I cover my face and cry like a man. In silence. Something I have not done since I was very young and nearly beaten unconscious during a pugilism match. I needed money to stay in school after my parents failed to pay tuition. I thought then that life could not get harder—belonging to no one, being penniless and in pain, but this is far worse.

  Please, God or vampire spirits of yesteryear or garden gnomes or Twitter trolls or whatever the hell has the power to help. Give me Stella. Head bent and soul heavy, I wait, but nothing happens for what feels like hours.

  Until my cell rings, and it is Lula. “Hello?”

  “Michael, OMG! They’re taking me. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better and buy you more time. I’m sorry for everything. But whatever you do, don’t let him win. Forget about me. Save Miriam and Stella!” The call ends.

  Sonofabi—as I’m about to call Lula back, I look up to see a little girl crossing the street in yellow rain boots and a red coat, holding hands with a sour-looking woman with silver hair, tight lips, and a deep frown. The child has long, messy blonde hair and a sweet oval face, like a tiny version of Miriam. She is a bit tall for her age, but so was I.

  And she has my lips! My heart balloons with an odd mixture of joy and the overwhelming urge to murder anyone who gets within ten feet of her, including that sourpuss who’s been tasked with caring for the girl. Or murdering her. Whichever way the Nice-wind blows.

  I get to my feet and follow the two down the street. The rain is coming down in fat, sloppy drops and sheeting off the asphalt, carrying with it debris from all the pine trees around us.

  I hope my leather pants do not get wetter. It will make running very difficult, not to mention chafe my manhood.

  They go inside a small homey-looking restaurant, and I hang back a minute before entering. The place has a wilderness mountain motif—knotted pine tables, a sloped pine ceiling, and paintings of deer in meadows on the wall. A cozy fire crackles down at the end near the bar.

  “Hiya. Welcome to the Hometown Grill. Find a seat anywhere you like,” says a young man in a white apron.

  “Thank you.” I take the first booth. It faces the entire restaurant, so I can keep an eye on Stella from across the room. My hands are shaking. I feel like a racehorse at the starting gate—the moment I take the girl, a chain of events will play out, and I will have no control over them. Police. Nice. Miriam. Lula. Fatherhood… I hear it is quite scary.

  Do not worry about that. Right now, all you need is…is…? I quickly realize that I do not have an exit plan. Dammit, man! What is the matter with you? I have no wallet, no money, no ID. I will be unable to rent a car or buy a plane ticket or do anything else. Think. Think. Who can help me?

  I quickly text the only person I can trust who lives nearby. Gretta is over six hundred years old, but was turned at the age of sixteen. She once sat on the Western European Council but retired after the Great War—said that vampire politics were too much for her. Last I heard, she lives near Tacoma and runs a coffee house.

  I call, hoping she remembers she owes me a favor. Or ten. I saved her castle from a horde of enemy vampires three hundred years ago.

  “Well, as I live and breathe! Is this the Vanderhorst?” a spunky, young voice greets me. “The assassin extraordinaire? The one and only true king besides Elvis? Voted hottest dead man alive?”

  I lower my voice. “Yes. Yes. Yes. And I never actually won; Clive’s coup got in the way.”

  “Well, you will always be hot man meat in my eyes. What can I do you for, king fottie?”

  “Fottie?”

  “Hottie with an F, as in I’d like to fuc—”

  “Got it. Thanks. I lost my wallet, and I am in need of a safe house, cash, and a driver’s license, but before you say anything, you should know that I am likely a fugitive or soon will be once Mr. Nice puts his plan into motion. So any aid you offer will make you an accomplice.”

  “Love it. Need it. Want it. My life is sooo boring.”

  I knew I could count on Gretta. “Can you meet me in Ashford? I am here now. My truck is out of fuel, and I am going to need a fast getaway—I must steal something back that belongs to me.”

  “So you want my Ferrari?”

  “Yes. Perfect.”

  “Too bad, because I don’t have it anymore. I joined an all-girl rock band—on my dustpan list—but I have a really cool van.”

  “Errr…fine. Whatever. Can you get here soon?” Tacoma is about an hour away, if I’m not mistaken.

  “No problem. Just text the address.”

  “Thank you, Gretta. Oh, and I might need to dust someone in broad daylight.” The nanny. “Can you think of something to create a distraction?”

  “Did you just miss the part where I said I’m in an all-girl rock band?”

  I envision what that might entail: Girls getting on tabletops in short skirts, grinding out punk music, head banging. “Whatever works. See you soon.”

  “If I do this, you finally owe me, and you know what I want.”

  “I thought you owed me. I saved your castle,” I point out.

  “No longer valid. I sold that crap-shack centuries ago,” she says cheerily.

  “What the bloody hell does it matter if you sold it?”

  “You want a rescue or not?” If her tone is any indication, she knows she has me by the sack.

  “Very well,” I grumble quietly. “I will allow you to paint me in the nude.”

  “Deal! Bye, fottie!” She hangs up, and I text her the restaurant’s address, warning her to be ready in case my “targets” go on the move. She replies with an eggplant emoji and two large eyes.

  Wonderful. Just add it to the list. Michael Vanderhorst’s fall from grace and all things respectable—theft, prostitution, drugs, and now…art model. Not even for Van Gogh did I pimp myself out.

  With the loose change in my pocket, I order a coffee. To my delight, it is strong. Delicious. I grab a newspaper left on the next table over and pretend to read while Stella and Franny order their meal. A coffee and toast for killer nanny and a three-egg cheese omelet with hash browns and a fruit cup for Stella.

  She’s a big eater just like me. I smile and wonder how much vitamin B she requires. Is she sensitive to the sun? Does she enjoy fire-roasted ghost peppers as an afternoon treat like I do? What traits from me did she inherit? There is so much to learn about this tiny creature, including how she truly came into being. Was it Clive’s blood in Miriam’s system that made conception possible? Is there something in her family’s DNA? I cannot wait to study her and find out.

  I glance at the tiny person coloring with crayons while Nanny McSlasher is nose deep in a book. I cannot help noticing the intensity of Stella’s focus. She wants her drawing to be perfect.

  Ahhh…a chip off the old vampire block.

  Not long after, their food is served. Stella is a very thorough chewer and has a voracious appetite for a five-year-old. She cleans her plate, but it takes almost forty minutes. Good for me since I’m still waiting for our getaway car.

  I text Gretta and ask how far out she is.

  Gretta: Ten minutes.

  Crap. Stella and Fanny are about to leave, and I cannot risk letting them slip through my fingers. I make a rash decision, hoping the rain will reduce the probability of anyone witnessing what I must do.

  I follow them outside.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I tail Stella and Franny down the street, which is little more than a few tourist shops
and modest inns tucked between towering trees. To my surprise, they go straight to a cluster of dark brown condos set back from the main road. As they pass to the side of the first building, I see my chance and rush in. It only takes one swipe of my hand to knock out the nanny, and though I would like to end her for the torment she has caused my librarian for over four long years, I do not have time to dispose of a body.

  I toss her into a dumpster sitting at the edge of the parking lot and turn to Stella, who looks surprisingly calm.

  “Come on,” I say.

  “Who are you?” she asks with her tiny voice, blinking her big brown eyes up at me.

  “Don’t worry. That bad woman can’t hurt you now. I’m here to take you home.”

  I sense she is about to run, so I scoop her up and bolt. “Just be quiet and all will be well.” As I move, outpacing the eyes of any witnesses, I cannot help smelling her soft blonde locks. The scent is sweet like bubblegum, and she smells so human. “Do not worry. You are safe now. I will take you to your mother.” I hold her close while I whip through the muddy, wet streets and search for a place hidden from prying eyes. There is an old barn next to what looks like one of those road salt depots. I go inside and set her down. “It is all right, little one. Daddy has you now.” I crouch in front of her and stare at her pale, wet face. My heart glows with a new sensation of belonging.

  “You’re not my dad!” she snaps.

  I blink. “I understand you do not know me, but I assure you I am your father. Your mother sent me to find you. The bad, bad people who took you won’t ever touch you again. I will make sure of it.”

  “You’re not my dad. My dad is tall and has black hair and he’s good-looking and wears pretty clothes.”

  “You think that Nice man is your father? No, little one.” I pet her hair and brush back the loose, wet strands with my fingertips. “I love you. I did not know it until I found out about you, but I do. Your nanny merely told you lies, but I will always tell you the truth. You are a miracle. Your mother and I would do anything for you.”

  “You’re not my dad,” she says in an insistent, bratty little voice.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Am.” I frown.

  “No! I’m going to scream.”

  I stand tall and cross my arms over my chest. “You do not scare me, munchkin. I am Michael Vanderhorst, a powerful, ancient—”

  “Ahhhhh! Help! Help!” She glares up with her wide brown eyes.

  Jesus! Is she part banshee? “Stop that this instant.” I crouch and cover her mouth. “Stop yelling.”

  She stops.

  “Thank you. That is not the way polite young women behave. Do you promise not to yell anymore?” I growl.

  She nods her little blonde head, and I remove my hand.

  “Ahhhh!”

  What the devil? I cup her mouth again. “Stop yelling, and I will do whatever you want. But please stop.” I must make a very important phone call to let Lula know that I have…

  Oh, Christ! Lula! She called right before I spotted Stella. From there, I became completely sidetracked. Look at me, already acting like a parent! I think proudly.

  I dial Lula, and as I suspected, no one answers. She has been taken into custody. I must come up with another way to warn Miriam. But first, I need to get Stella somewhere safe.

  “This is very important,” I say. “You mustn’t yell because I am trying very hard to make sure bad people…” I pause. I do not want to alarm the child by telling her that her mother’s life is in danger. “That bad people do not say bad things about your mother. So if you stop screaming and behave, I can help her. Do you promise not to yell and to tell me, with words, what you’d like in exchange?”

  Again, she nods and I slowly remove my hand.

  “I want a sundae, a pony, a pair of ballerina slippers, a purple lizard, a Barbie space station, a traveling merman on vacation who goes from city to city and takes pictures with interesting people, a box of Twinkies for the goddess of the underworld, and some unicorn slippers.”

  I stare for a moment. “Were you, by chance, dropped on your head at any point during your infancy?”

  She stares.

  “Sorry. Sorry. I promise to get you all of those things, but only after I have delivered you safely to your mother. Until then, you must be on your best behavior.”

  Stella narrows her cunning brown eyes.

  “Please?” I beg, but in my own manly sort of way.

  She mumbles yes.

  “Good girl.” I pat her head. “Now let us find our ride and get you some dry clothes.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Wow. Aren’t you tall for your age,” says Gretta, who has straight black hair and is wearing skintight black jeans and a leather jacket like my own.

  “She is quite tall, like her father.” In a hurry, I flash a quick smile and open the sliding door of the black van with red flames painted down the sides. “Interesting ride.” Gretta was always a little wild, jumping from one adventure to the next. A bit of a lone wolf, too, but only in the sense that she never stays with one society for long. Not that they wouldn’t have her—she’s quite popular, especially with men—but she simply loves meeting new people and having new experiences. If I have had nine professions throughout my existence, she has had ten times that—belly dancer, trapeze artist, dictator. You name it, she’s done it.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t round up the band. They got arrested right before you called. Some incident having to do with protesting anti-protesters.”

  I frown and help Stella into the van. “Politics today are very confusing.”

  “Not at all. All you have to do is pick a topic, any topic, and get outraged. You don’t even have to understand the facts.” Her eyes go wide with delight. “Then you just post mean shit on Twitter.” She slides behind the steering wheel and shuts her door.

  “How enlightened.” I turn my attention back to Stella, who seems completely unfazed by any of this. “Put your seatbelt on. We’ll be to our safe house shortly and then get you some warm clothes.”

  “I’m hungry.” She looks up with her big doey eyes.

  “But you just ate.” Enough for two grown men, from what I saw.

  “Hungry.” She makes a little grunt.

  “Okay. What would you like to eat?”

  “Cupcake. I want a cupcake,” she says in that whiney little tone.

  Have I ever mentioned what whining does to a vampire, especially an alpha male with little patience? It drives us mad. “Please speak in your normal voice, and then we may discuss getting you a treat. But at the moment, we have very important things to do—”

  “Ahhhh!” she yells.

  What the devil is the matter with her? I place my hand over her mouth. “Stop that or you will have nothing.”

  Gretta chuckles in the front seat.

  “This isn’t funny.” Lives are on the line. Time is of the essence.

  “Like hell it isn’t. The great Michael Vanderhorst has finally met his match.” She starts the engine, and we take our leave down the narrow mountain road.

  After an hour of driving, which involves repeated unanswered calls to Lula, we arrive at Gretta’s home. We cannot stay long because the moment Nice finds out I have Stella, he will begin making inquiries. It won’t take much to find out about Gretta—one of the few remaining vampires left in the state—Thank you, Twilight.

  “This house is ugly! I don’t like these clothes. Where’s my mommy? You’re stupid!” Stella stomps her yellow rainboots in Gretta’s sterile-looking living room, which has art pieces posing as furniture—the sort of stuff that hurts to sit on. The home itself is a two-story modernist affair of right angles, glass, and steel, all overlooking the Puget Sound. Like me, Gretta has had many years to acquire wealth, though I must wonder what her cover story is. She looks like a teenager, barely passable for eighteen.

  “The outfit is only temporary, my sweet. I don’t want you to be cold.” Gr
etta loaned her black leggings and a big black sweater that goes to Stella’s knees. “And please do not insult Gretta’s lovely home or your daddy.”

  “You’re not my dad! My dad is taller and handsome! Where’s my cupcake?” She stomps her feet again.

  Gretta comes from the kitchen, holding a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. “Sorry, I don’t have much in the way of people food, but I thought she might like these.”

  Stella takes one look at the plain vanilla cookies and screams, “I want chocolate chip!”

  “You are too young for that,” I say over the yelling, feeling grateful that Gretta’s home is fairly soundproof. The neighbors are a bit removed, as well.

  “Chocolate chip! Chocolate chip!”

  The light bulb goes on. “Did your nanny let you have chocolate?” It might explain why Stella was so calm earlier. With her half-vampire DNA, it would act as a tranquilizer.

  “Daddy lets me have anything I want,” Stella says.

  “Well, I am your real daddy, and I do not believe in appeasing tiny terrorists.”

  “You’re not my daddy!” Stella starts screaming again, and I am beginning to wonder if I should retrieve the nanny from the dumpster and give this little monster back. She is a spoiled little brat. Must be from Miriam’s side of the family. I imagine Keepers had ferocious tendencies, which was why Clive chose them to defend the human race.