The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant, Book 3

by Pamfiloff, Mimi Jean

  “Yes.”

  “Then why in the world are you putting your eggs in that basket? I mean, come on. I’ve never fought a day in my life, and even I can see that rescuing these council members is a nonstarter. Total trap.”

  I cannot answer her question honestly because that would require I explain in detail the things I had to do in the last war. It is far too disturbing, far too grim. So while she has taken all of the news I’ve delivered thus far like a champ, this is different.

  “I fought one war, Miriam. I fought so much that my soul bled, and I lost every piece of me that was worth a damn.” I exhale. “And then I met you. Three hundred years later. Three hundred years of sleepwalking through the day and reliving my sins each night. After all that I gave, all that I have been through, I cannot—I will not return to that shell of a man. Not when I feel alive again.”

  “Oh.” Miriam blinks. “Then yeah. We really gotta rescue your council members. What’s left of them. By the way, did I thank you for saving me from Nice?”

  “You did.”

  “Good. Because I really, really hope that from here on out, Michael, these games are over. I mean, I know I was the one who didn’t want to listen, but that’s done. Oh. Ver.”

  I grin at her. “Nothing could please me more.”

  Miriam chuckles and runs a hand through her frazzled hair, like she’s keeping a little joke to herself.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “No more secrets, remember?” I push.

  She shakes her head. “It’s just…I had this crazy grandfather everyone used to talk about. I never met him, but he always came up at family gatherings. Crazy Grandpa Kipper.”

  “What did they say about him?” I smile in anticipation of an amusing story.

  “Besides being crazy?”

  “Obviously.”

  Miriam shrugs. “He told everyone he was a vampire hunter. He claimed they were everywhere—the post office, the grocery store, mowing his lawn. They said he naturally drew them in. Anyway, he had to be locked up because he kept throwing holy water on people to check if they were human. The last straw was when he filled his house with chocolate and began making little frozen chocolate pellets to shoot from a slingshot he made. He nearly killed a census taker.”

  What. The. What? “What makes you think he was crazy?” Because I truly hope she’s right. This could be bad.

  “Michael, he just was. I mean, the man thought he had something in his blood that lured vampires in so he could kill them. And he thought everyone was a vampire. I mean…everyone.”

  Holy frozen chocolate balls.

  She goes on. “It’s just a coincidence, I’m sure, but imagine Grandpa Kipper’s face if he learned vampires were actually real. And that toilets really can speak—the Japanese ones anyway.”

  “The toilet?”

  “Oh yeah. Sometimes the dishwasher and clothes hamper were in on it.” She sighs. “Poor guy. He passed away in a mental institution. My mom never quite got over it.”

  I refrain from smiling, but on the inside, I’m all grins. For a moment, I thought Miriam was telling me that her grandfather was one of these…these…Oh, hell. What was the name? I cannot recall, but Clive mentioned them once many years ago when he attempted to explain how he and the other eleven vampires were made. Something about counterweights. I asked what that meant, but he never gave me an answer. He simply said that our evolution was a random act of nature, but that didn’t mean we could be trusted to act in nature’s best interest.

  Thank God that Miriam’s grandfather was just a loon. I hope? No. She is not a chocolate-slinging vampire killer.

  Miriam sighs. “The strange thing is, I once overheard my parents talking in the study. My mom said she felt like she was being watched. That’s when my dad upgraded the security system and added the fence.”

  My mind starts filling with doubt. What if there is something in her blood, an attractant of sorts? It would explain why I am—

  No. Not possible. I want Miriam because she is beautiful and unique, I tell myself. But now the seed has been planted.

  “Are you all right?” Miriam asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Then why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost? Or a talking hamper?” She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.

  “I am truly fine. I simply do not know what to do with you—how to keep you safe while I assess the situation with our council members.”

  “What was your original plan?” she asks.

  “Put on an appropriate disguise and do a little reconnaissance at the pits, including determining what sort of facility is built over them today.”

  “This plane got Wi-Fi?”

  I nod.

  She gets up, grabs her backpack, which I’d left on a seat toward the front, and returns with her phone. She taps the device with her finger. “Where are these pits located?”

  “About ten miles directly east of Blackpool, England.”

  “Ah.” She bobs her head. “And now I see why you made up the story about the uncle with the books. You wanted to go to Liverpool to look into this whole thing.”

  “I’m sorry for the deception. If it makes you feel any better, there actually is a collection—quite old and belonging to my family, though it is probably turned to dust by now.”

  “Considering the circumstances, I can forgive you for lying, Michael, but not for letting good books go to waste.”

  “Truly unforgivable.” I simply hadn’t had the motivation to care for anything belonging to my parents. I hardly knew them. Odd how I never did let their things go, however.

  Miriam hands me her phone. “Use the satellite map feature.”

  It takes a moment to realize what she is saying. “I suppose I could have done that to begin with. You are a smart woman.” I can see what occupies the pits today.

  Still seated, I zoom in on the image, but the area is all grazing fields. One particular spot is covered with trees. “I think this actually might be the place. The tree line forms a perfect circle, but I find it hard to believe the pits would have been left open.”

  “Maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re covered to look like pastures.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t like it.”

  “Like what?” she asks.

  “This hardly seems like a secure enough location to hold such valuable prisoners.” I had imagined the pits might be below a home or building. At the very least, they’d be covered by a barn.

  Mystery! Mystery! Mystery!

  Shut up. Nobody’s speaking to you.

  “I think it sounds like the perfect spot to hide something,” Miriam says. “In plain sight. Middle of nowhere.”

  Don’t you dare, inner-vampire-child mystery junky. I check the time. We should be right over New York City. We could stop here or stay the course. On one hand, Miriam is right; going to rescue the council members is a risk—not that I would be doing it alone. If I find them there, I would have to trust Otto and his men to assist. On the other hand, what if Nice and Miriam are right? This could be a trap. Or not.

  “I will tell the pilot to continue on to Liverpool,” I say. “From there, I will travel to the pits. You will stay in the plane and wait for me.”

  “Ha. No. If you’re going to the pits, I’m going with you. To the pits.” She pauses. “Can we rename them? Every time I say ‘the pits,’ I imagine myself feeling depressed, sitting on the sofa, binging on pork rinds and Heart of Dixie.”

  Ick…pork rinds. Heart of Dixie, however, I can get behind. Lula got me hooked. That, and Vampire Diaries. Hysterical. As if we’d go around crying all the time like that Claus man. So unrealistic. “Miriam, I am sorry, but you must stay on the plane. I am not going to risk your safety or negotia—”

  “You’re not my husband, daddy, or any other figure with power over me. Not that my husband would have power over me, but you understand.”

  “This is not about power.” I shake my head. “It is simply too
dangerous.”

  She takes the seat across the aisle and grabs my hand. “Michael, I thought I made myself clear. This world is my home, too. I’m not going to sit on my butt and do nothing. So we’re in this together now. Also, I’m probably safer with you than anywhere else if you’re not sure who to trust.”

  She has a point. “Very well, but I am in charge.”

  She laughs.

  “Miriam, this is not a joke. These vampires are dangerous.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Then why are you making light?” I ask.

  “How can you not ‘make light’? This is the most insane, improbable situation ever. It belongs in a movie or as a storyline for Fanged Love. But it’s not a fantasy, Michael. You’re a vampire. I’m a librarian. We are looking at the end of the world if we don’t do something.” She throws her hands in the air. “Does it get any weirder than that?”

  “No. And I have seen much weirdness.”

  “Exactly. And the strangest thing of all? I feel like I’ve been preparing for this my entire life—like I was meant to do this.”

  I am stunned. Never in a million years would I have guessed that Miriam could handle this so well. I guess Lula was right. Miriam is much more resilient than I gave her credit for. Just one more sign that we are meant to be together.

  Suddenly, there is that nagging in the back of my mind again. What if I’m wrong?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By the time we land in Liverpool, it is almost five p.m. with the time zone difference, and Miriam is just waking up. I’ve made a few phone calls, including to Lula and Viviana, who are hunkered down, but hard at work making inquiries with other societies and their leaders.

  The strange part is, there has been no action taken by our enemies. No attacks. No soldiers. No suspicious activities reported whatsoever. In other words, something just isn’t right. I would have expected them to make a move by now before our side has time to get our act together. Strike while the iron is hot.

  It simply doesn’t add up. So at this point, the only thing we know for certain is that everyone is on edge. Something is coming, something big, yet how can we prepare when we are flying blind?

  Speaking of flying…

  “You’re all set, sir,” says Fernando. “I’ll have the plane fueled up and ready to go when you get back.”

  “Thank you. You’re a good man,” I say, putting together the last of my disguise. I have on a black helmet with spikes, a biker outfit complete with chaps and a fishnet shirt, and dark sunglasses. My fake goatee is purple for that extra flair, and, of course, I have bathed myself in Jovan Musk.

  “Michael? What the hell?” Miriam’s bloodshot eyes crack open. “Why are you dressed like a leather daddy? With a purple beard?” She pinches her nose. “And what is that smell? It’s making me dizzy.”

  “Only because I used a gallon of it. Didn’t want it to wear off before we arrive to our destination.” I toss a shopping bag into the seat next to her.

  “What is that?” She glances at the bag.

  “That’s Lula’s disguise. She’s a few sizes larger than you, but it should still fit. And did I mention we’re taking a motorcycle?”

  Miriam pulls out the black leather short-shorts and matching vest. “I am not wearing this.”

  “We cannot simply drive up on someone’s property dressed as ourselves.”

  “But—but that outfit is—”

  “Sexy, and you have always desired to wear it while sitting on a Harley and strapped to a sexy dangerous vampire?” I joke.

  “Errr…”

  “Stick with me, and I will make all of your fantasies come to life.”

  “I’ll go get changed.” She slides past me into the bathroom. Fernando simply stands there giving me a look.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I am finding it difficult to believe you are our king.”

  I do appear rather goofy. “I am really more of a suit man. I believe it is the proper attire of a gentleman.”

  “I was actually thinking how tame you are. Have you seen what Nice wears on official business trips or holidays?”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Not unless you’re into baby doll dresses and parasols for grown men.”

  “Then that would be a no.”

  “Well, I wish you all the luck. Call if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, friend,” I reply.

  I have arranged for the local rental agency to have the motorcycle parked outside, and the keys left in the private airport’s office. After a brief visit with the local immigration officials, we will be on our way. I only hope they do not give me any headaches over my outfit.

  Miriam steps out of the bathroom, and I feel my pulse quicken. Her shorts are more like leather panties, and her tight vest doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

  My tongue falls from my mouth. “I beg of you to consider making that your new librarian outfit. I think it would really do wonders to inspire more books to be checked out.”

  “Yeah, no. Shall we go?” she asks cheerily.

  Miriam seems too at ease for such a dangerous mission. We do not know what we will find. But at least if she is dressed like that, I will go happy if anything happens.

  Forty minutes later, we are riding down a back road toward Blackpool, the foggy afternoon wind whipping through our leather garments. Miriam is holding me so tight I can barely breathe.

  “Ease up there, Miriam. You’re going to break me.”

  “There aren’t any seatbelts back here. You’re the next best thing!” she yells over the loud motor.

  I must admit, she is taking everything in stride, including a small hiccup at the airport. Apparently, they suspected us of being in some rock group and failing to obtain the proper work visas—the downside of flying in a private jet and looking so glamorous. However, my worries are only increasing. Our enemy’s radio silence and Miriam’s disclosure about her grandfather are perturbing, though completely unrelated. Still, doubt has settled in my bones, and I find myself wondering if everything I’m doing is wrong, including pursuing a relationship with Miriam. What if my feelings for her are a chemical reaction to some potent, vampire-attracting pheromone? It would be unfair and ungentlemanly to continue with her until I know for certain.

  I take a turn down a narrow road lined with green fields and grazing cattle. Up ahead to the right is a barn and what appears to be an unworked farm. I do not know who might be watching, so I have warned Miriam to put on a good show.

  I nudge her with my elbow—the signal.

  “Oh. Gotcha. Hey, Miguel,” she yells, “I gotta pee real bad. Can you find some big tall trees so I can go?” Her words come out robotic and stale.

  Someone needs acting lessons if they’re going to be my sidekick. “Sure, babe! I’ll pull in right here and find you a good spot for a tinkle.”

  “You’re the best, sugar.”

  We make our way past several more run-down farms—dilapidated barns, driveways overrun with weeds—until I spot the location of the pits. I pull over and hit the kickstand.

  “Honey, can you keep a lookout?” She hops off the back.

  “Sure thing, sweetie pie.” I follow her toward the tree line, listening for any sounds, including a shift in the density of the soil. If there are tunnels beneath us or a hatch of any sort, then my heavy leather boots will help me find them.

  We approach, and I am on my guard, ready for anything.

  “What the…” All right. I was not ready for this.

  “Is that why the town is called Blackpool?” Miriam asks.

  I scratch my head and stare down at the water. What was once an open pit is now a dark, murky duck pond.

  “I do not understand.” I turn on my heel, wondering if I miscalculated the spot. I see a hill off in the distance at the exact location I remember from long, long ago. The beach is directly west a few miles.

  We need to get out of here. “Had a good pee, honey?” I say loudl
y. “Let’s hit the road.”

  We casually walk back to the bike, but on the inside, my inner detective is yelling at me: You suck! You couldn’t solve your way out of a granny knot.

  We mount the bike and hit the road again. We have been sent on a wild-goose chase for sure. And it was Nice who sent us on it. But why?

  Wait. He was the one who said not to come, that it was a trap. On the other hand, I cannot trust him. Especially not after he flipped out and tried to steal Miriam.

  Several miles down the road, I pull over and call Lula. “Anything happening? Anything at all?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because the pits are ponds. Nice lied to us.”

  “Seriously? Wow. I honestly don’t have a clue, Michael. Just be careful and keep me posted.”

  “Will do.” I end the call and dial Otto, but it goes into voicemail. In all my years, Otto has never not answered. Not even when we used telegraphs. He would dot-dot-dash back within the hour, the fastest one could hope for back then.

  Sonofabiscuit. There are two global headquarters, one here and one in Wellington, Kansas. I have no clue how they chose these locations—some sort of fan raffle, I imagine. But I call the Blackpool switchboard first. No answer. This is not good. I call Wellington, and it too goes unanswered.

  Crap. I groan.

  “It’s bad news, isn’t it?” Miriam asks.

  I am tempted to make something up in order to spare her the worry, but I want Miriam to trust me, and there are no excuses for my lies. Not anymore. She deserves to hear the full truth, and the last twenty-four hours have proven she can handle it. The problem now seems to be with me. My four-century-old brain cannot quite figure out what is happening.

  “Yes. It is bad news.” We get back on the road, heading in the direction of the airport.

  With the wind in my hair, my purple goatee flapping against my cheek, and a scantily clad librarian pressed to my back, I have never felt more out of control than I do in this very moment. I am driving blind and everything is at stake.

  Stop the pity party, Vanderhorst. You survived the Great War. You have lived through many more wars since then and witnessed the birth of a great nation. You helped make this world a better place. You have lived a life of honor, always seeking wisdom and to help others. “I can do this.”