Bled & Breakfast

by Michelle Rowen

  He disappeared and returned a minute later with my order. I paid him and sipped on the fruity drink.

  “Nice of you to join us,” a voice said to my left.

  I froze. I recognized that voice. It belonged to a witch.

  Slowly, I turned to see Miranda Collins standing there, giving me a dirty look.

  Definitely a witch. Definitely with an ax to grind about Owen. Miranda was a woman with anger issues.

  And definitely a suspect, although I doubted she’d be so blatant with her hatred just before she made him go splat.

  But I could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  I forced a smile on my face, one that didn’t show off my fangs. At first glance, most people would immediately assume bad dental work, not vampirism, but why risk it?

  I needed answers. And Miranda Collins was going to give them to me.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I’m Sarah Dearly. It’s nice to meet you . . . Miranda, right?”

  “You’re best friends with Heather.” She said it like it was an accusation.

  “I just said that so you’d stop picking on her.” My smile held, hopefully making me seem friendly and disarming. I tried not to think about the fact that this woman might have the ability to kill me with a death spell at any moment. “I only met her yesterday.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re honest.”

  “To a fault, really. My husband says I’m a lousy liar, so I suppose I don’t have much choice in the matter.” My thoughts went immediately to Thierry. My phone hadn’t sounded to alert me that he’d sent a text reply to let me know his whereabouts. Worry churned in my gut.

  The VIP vampires had gone missing without a trace. Just vanished. Poof.

  Thierry, where are you?

  “Your husband . . . ,” she began. “The tall, dark-haired, gorgeous man you were with at Heather’s?”

  “The very one.”

  Her glossy red lips thinned. “I didn’t realize he was married.”

  “I’ll forgive you for flirting this time. I don’t get violent until the second offense.” I followed it up with a smile so she’d know I was just joking around. Mostly.

  She looked down at my ring finger to see my three-carat diamond and gave me a tentative smile. “You’re a lucky woman.”

  “I like to think so.”

  Then she burst into tears.

  Okay, didn’t expect that. I grimaced. “What? Was it something I said?”

  “No, no.” She waved a hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to seem so weak, but sometimes it’s hard to hold it together.”

  I patted her awkwardly on her shoulder while I downed the rest of my margarita in one icy gulp. “Anything I can do to help?”

  She slowly gathered herself, wiping her face with the sleeve of her yellow blouse, succeeding in smearing her mascara. “You must think I’m a horrible person, after . . . after that scene in front of Heather’s.”

  “I reserve total judgment until I’ve gotten to know all the parties. I mean, I know you had something with Owen.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That waste of space. You know, he’d be smart to leave Salem altogether with the number of women I know want to tear a strip off his hide.”

  My ears perked up. “Really. Like who?”

  “Name her. Everybody’s got a grievance against that jerk.”

  “And you?” I watched her carefully for her reaction. “You actually don’t seem too upset by his reputation.”

  “Oh, please. It stung, of course, but that loser’s meaningless to me now. Besides, I’m used to disappointment from men. Ever since high school and . . .” Her jaw clenched and she signaled to the bartender for a drink. “And that bitch, Heather McKinley.”

  I’d known Heather for a little over a day, and “bitch” was not a word I’d use to describe her. At all. “What did she do?”

  She grabbed hold of the edge of the wooden bar so tightly I thought she might get a splinter. “Let’s just say she’s not as sweet and innocent as she might want you to believe. Maybe you should ask her sometime about Jacob Black.”

  I blinked. “The werewolf from Twilight?”

  She snorted. “No. He was my boyfriend in senior year. Heather and him ran off on prom night, leaving me there looking like a fool.”

  Well, well, well. So if Miranda’s trot down memory lane was true, the innocent, toad-loving innkeeper wasn’t nearly as innocent as she might have me believe. At least, according to Miranda Collins, rival witch. Very interesting. Not necessarily relevant to the topic at hand, but interesting.

  “People make bad choices when they’re teenagers,” I said with a shrug. “Believe me, I’m no exception.”

  “Let me guess . . .” She swept a glance over my short shirt, bare legs, and high heels. “Cheerleader, right?”

  My shoulders sank. Most people, especially those who’d hated their high school years, had preconceived notions of ex-cheerleaders. I didn’t exactly fit the typical mold of endlessly popular bubblehead. Well, not the endlessly popular part, anyway. “Don’t judge. It was a small school. Somebody had to deal with the pom-pom situation. If it helps, I was a really sarcastic cheerleader. My cheers were only half-cheerful.”

  “Good to know.” The bartender brought her a drink, placing it in front of her on a coaster. Since he knew what she wanted merely from a wave in the air, I assumed she was a regular here.

  A glance and a sniff told me her regular drink was a double scotch on the rocks.

  She downed it, then signaled for another, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Owen Harper is meaningless to me. I hope that guy dies a slow, painful death.”

  If she was the murderer, she certainly wasn’t trying to appear very innocent.

  “Did you know his secret?” I asked tentatively.

  “Owen had a lot of secrets.” She jabbed a drunken finger at me. “You want to know his biggest one?”

  “Um . . . I might already know it.”

  She swiveled her glass, watching the ice cubes spin around. “He read Cosmopolitan magazine every single month, cover to cover. He even had a subscription. He thought reading up on what women want would help him score all the better.”

  Seemed like it helped him, if you asked me. He wasn’t my type, but there was no argument that he’d been a popular guy around town. “So he subscribed to a women’s magazine. Okay. And you think that was his biggest secret?”

  “Sure.” She gave me a sharp look. “Why, what do you know about him?”

  “Oh, nothing important, I guess.”

  “Unless you mean the vampire thing,” she said, flicking her hand. “Like, whatever.”

  I glanced at my bare wrist. “Oh, would you look at the time. My husband should be here any minute.”

  I hoped he would be. Otherwise, I needed to keep looking for him. I couldn’t stay here any longer. I wasn’t finding out anything useful—other than Miranda’s drunken apathy about Owen’s vampirism.

  “I should go. I came here to try to meet somebody new, but I’m not into it. I mean, I know I look good. Never looked so good in my life. I could get anybody I want.” She downed her second drink even quicker than she had the first.

  I had to admit, it wasn’t just drunken bragging. She had a flawless complexion and perfect blond hair. She could pick somebody up—if that was what she wanted. “Well, it was nice talking to you.”

  She pointed at me, her eyes half-closed. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve been cursed, you know? Like I do everything right, I get what I want, and it’s still the same crap.”

  Cursed. That was something a witch could do. That is, if Miranda wasn’t being euphemistic. “You don’t think somebody really cursed you, do you?”

  She scoffed. “The only one who would try would be Heather. And that try-hard witch doesn’t have enough magic in her to . . . to . . . well, she just doesn’t. That’s all. It’s kind of pathetic, since I know her mother had serious skills.”

  So He
ather might have the inclination but not the skills to work some dark magic. Then again, I’d had some high school rivals I would have been happy to turn into warthogs if given the option. “Is that why she isn’t allowed to join your coven?”

  Miranda’s open expression shuttered, as if she’d just realized she’d been openly talking about magic with a stranger. The look was enough to chill me. “Did Heather tell you I was in a coven?”

  I shifted uncomfortably on my bar stool. “No. I don’t remember who mentioned it.”

  I could lie when I had to. Not everybody was an expert lie detector like Thierry.

  Speaking of . . . I pulled my phone out of my purse and glanced at the screen. Still no reply.

  “It’s not a coven,” Miranda insisted. “It’s a book club.”

  A book club. I nodded solemnly. “Of course it is. I have no doubt.”

  “Covens are not allowed in Salem. There are rules, you know.” She scanned the surrounding area as if fearful someone might overhear us.

  “Actually, I don’t know. I’ve met a couple independent witches in the past, but none who are part of a . . . book club.”

  “Whatever.” She pushed off her stool. “Treat that husband of yours right, okay? There are plenty of women who’d be happy to step in and take care of that hunk if you’re not doing a good enough job.”

  She’d just called Thierry a hunk. How retro. “Thanks for the warning.”

  With a mischievous smile returning to her lips, she turned away from the bar and disappeared into the crowd.

  Well, that was a waste of time. I didn’t learn anything new. No new suspects, no new information.

  Other than the fact that Heather might have been a boyfriend-stealing hussy ten years ago.

  I quickly called Thierry’s cell number, but it went directly to voice mail.

  “If something bad has happened to you,” I said after the tone, “I’m going to be furious.”

  I tossed the phone back into my purse, swallowing back the lump in my throat, and got up from my seat as the next karaoke song started. It was “Islands in the Stream.”

  That poor guy, whoever he was. He could not carry a tune to save his life.

  I turned to look at the stage and at the man holding the microphone.

  After that, all I could do was stare.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I whispered.

  It was Thierry. Onstage.

  Singing.

  Really, really badly.

  Chapter 6

  The lights shone on my husband, the sometimes dour and almost always serious centuries-old master vampire, as he sang into the microphone while perched upon a wooden stool. Same dark hair brushed back from his handsome face, same strong jawline, same dark slashes of eyebrows above piercing gray eyes. Same tailored black suit, Italian leather shoes, and glint of his platinum wedding band.

  For three and a half minutes I stood there, stunned. My mouth literally hung open like a carnival game waiting for a little kid to try to pitch a rubber ball in to win a prize.

  When the song finished, I tentatively approached the stage. He stepped down, and several people at the tables close by slapped him on his back and told him he’d done a great job.

  “Thanks,” he replied. “It’s always been one of my favorite songs.”

  I drew closer. “Thierry?”

  His gaze met mine. “Sarah, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “So . . .” I began as another eager singer jumped onstage ready to rock. The intro of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” began to swell. “You like karaoke? This is something I actually didn’t know about you.”

  “You don’t know everything about me, do you?”

  “That is an understatement if ever I’ve heard one.”

  He spread his hands. “I know it might have looked a bit silly to you, but I figured when one is in Rome . . .”

  “One should sing Bee Gees songs? Or was that the Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton rendition?”

  He smiled. “If you want to have a go next . . .”

  “No, no. That’s quite all right.” I cleared my throat, eyeing him curiously. What was up with him tonight? “You left the room without telling me. Then you ignored my text and call. Not cool. You worried me.”

  His smile disappeared. “I wanted to come here right away and didn’t know how long you’d be. I knew you’d be right behind me.”

  I was about to make a bigger deal of this, tell him how he couldn’t be so reckless with a murderous alpha witch loose around town, but he seemed so relaxed that I began to doubt that it was as important as I’d made it out to be.

  Still, I hadn’t liked it at all. Communication was the cornerstone of a successful marriage. I think I’d heard that on Dr. Phil once. That man knew his stuff.

  “Okay, let’s forget it. Anyway, I talked to Miranda a minute ago,” I said, hitching my purse strap higher on my shoulder. “I think she’s off the list of suspects.”

  “Suspects . . . for Owen’s murder?”

  “No, for being a local fashion disaster. Of course for Owen’s murder.” I hooked my arm through his and gave him a cautious look. “I think we need to go back to the inn. Now. You’re acting kind of strange.”

  Kind of strange?

  “Am I?” He shrugged. “I feel fantastic.”

  “Once we get out of Salem tomorrow, I think everything will be better. We can reassess and regroup before contacting the Ring with a nonprogress report.”

  “Get out of Salem . . . right.” He nodded. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. Put plenty of room between us and this place. Figure things out from a safe distance.”

  I looked up at him, frowning. “Exactly. So let’s go.”

  He didn’t argue or try to request another song. We left the bar and walked silently back to the Booberry Inn.

  “Hey, Rose,” he said as we passed by the living room toward the stairs.

  “Good evening, Thierry,” she responded. “Enjoying Salem’s nightlife?”

  She was still knitting. It looked like a warm, colorful afghan for one of the beds upstairs. I’d always wanted to be more crafty, but I’d once gotten a paper cut from my scrapbook that literally required stitches. I took it as a clear sign from the universe not to scrapbook.

  “Love it.” He put his arm around my shoulders and tugged me closer to his side. “My wife and I are retiring for the evening.”

  She nodded. “Sleep well.”

  “Sure thing,” he replied as we moved up the staircase.

  Sure thing?

  Had I just entered Bizarroland?

  Finally we were in our room. I locked the door and turned to face him. “Okay, spill. What’s up with you tonight?”

  He watched me carefully. “Nothing. Why are you asking me that?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just . . . you seem—I don’t even know how to put it.” I wracked my brain. “Not normal.”

  His smile stretched. “I think you’re imagining things, Sarah. I’m the same as always. I know the karaoke might have thrown you off a little, but don’t you think I might have a few whimsical quirks to my personality that you were previously unaware of?”

  “No,” I replied honestly. “I know you pretty well, Thierry, at least personality-wise. You don’t sing. Or tell jokes. Or use excessive modern slang. Or smile even half as widely as you are right now.”

  He laughed and pulled me into his arms. “Maybe I’m more fun than you thought I was.”

  “Fun is a good word. A word I’m totally open to.” Maybe the threat of the Ring coming after him for his missing memories had made him remember that life was precious and every day should be an adventure.

  Nah. This was something else entirely. Call it a gut feeling.

  Thierry did not have whimsical quirks. Period.

  “So what’s the problem?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” I was utterly perplexed. “Maybe I’m overreacting.”

  “I promise, if it bothers you that much,
I swear I’ll never sing again. Scout’s honor.” He raised two fingers. “Am I really that bad of a singer?”

  “Yes, you really are. No offense.”

  This didn’t make his broad smile slip even a fraction. His gray eyes actually sparkled with amusement as he raised his brow. “Now”—he moved toward the bed and picked up the black silk teddy I’d taken out of my suitcase earlier—“this looks promising.”

  “It’s my Vegas lingerie. Ready and waiting for this honeymoon to kick into high gear.”

  “And here we are.”

  I glanced away from the scrap of lace and silk to meet his now heated gaze. “And here we are.”

  He approached me again, sliding his hand around to the small of my back, and pulled me closer. “You in sexy lingerie. I can’t think of a single thing hotter than that.”

  “Okay.” Something was seriously wrong here.

  What in the world had gotten into Thierry tonight?

  He smirked. “Mr. and Mrs. de Bennicoeur. The ancient and grumpy meets the young and beautiful—and sparks fly. We’re like soul mates or something. Right? Kiss me, baby.”

  I dodged his kiss before it hit its target. “I don’t believe this.”

  The realization that had been circling like an approaching storm slammed into me with the force of a hurricane. He hadn’t been behaving like himself at all ever since I found him at that karaoke bar. I hadn’t understood why, figured he was just having an off evening. He looked the same as always, but he acted totally different.

  There was only one reason I could think of.

  I gasped. “You’re not Thierry!”

  “Uh, wrong. I am.” He sent an appreciative look toward the vanity mirror and raked a hand through his hair. “I mean, look at me, all tall, dark, and fangsome. I’m totally Thierry.”

  “No, you’re not.” I stared at him, stunned, until it finally hit me. My hand shot to my mouth. “You’re . . . you’re Owen!”

  Total silence filled the room for a heavy moment.

  He raised his index finger as if ready to make a valid point, but then his hand dropped to his side. “It’s not going to help me very much if I keep trying to argue with you on this, right?”