CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Remember what I said about librarians not living in mansions? Scrap that. The moment we pull up the long driveway cutting through a rocky desert hillside overlooking the valley below, I realize there is much more to Miriam’s story.
“I think you are the only one in your profession who lives like a Kardashian,” I say as we pass through a set of iron gates, and I park my blue Skittle in her circular driveway.
Miriam’s pale cheeks flush. “My parents invested wisely and left behind a nice insurance policy—crap. I really shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” she says quietly.
“Because people knowing you have money leaves you ripe for vultures and gold diggers, I imagine.”
“You’d be right,” she says.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I reject all forms of attachments derived from materialism.”
She laughs softly. “God, Mike. You’re like a breath of fresh air.”
I want to burst out with laughter. To call an old cynical vampire a “breath of fresh air” is like calling a turd “spring fresh.”
I turn off the engine. “If the men you date make you doubt, for even a fraction of a moment, how wonderful and beautiful you are, then you are definitely dating the wrong sort of men.”
“Am I getting dating advice from a college guy who is in a relationship with a nympho?” She chuckles softly.
My jaw drops, and I try not to laugh. “She is not a nympho. She is…a free spirit who enjoys sex. With random men. Sometimes five at a time—okay, she’s a nympho, but the heart wants what it wants, and Lula is—”
“Incredible. I mean that. She’s wow. Funny, full of life, and so passionate.”
I nod. “Yes. All those things.”
“Then you do love her?”
Love? Lula? Another vampire? We simply do not go there. I need Lula like I needed Clive.
“She is everything to me,” I lie. Because Miriam is now part of my need. It’s halfsies all the way.
“She must be if you still love her after she slept with ten guys in one night.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. What the bloody hell? I thought it was five. Was there a full moon last weekend or something?
I smile stiffly. “The heart wants what the heart wants.” And I want to kick the snot out of Lula for humping so many men in one night and then placing me in the position of having to pretend I’m her boyfriend who’s completely okay with it. Very emasculating.
“Let us change subjects, shall we?” I say.
“Sure. Sorry. I know it must still be a sore spot for you.”
Not nearly as sore as your having a boyfriend and that I will have to share you.
I exit the car and walk around to open Miriam’s door. It is almost one in the afternoon, and I think I feel my eyelids singeing from the bright sun. I must hurry her inside.
“You’re such a gentleman,” she says.
Yes, yes. I know. I take her hand and help her out, trying to move her along. “How are you feeling now?”
“Perfectly fine.”
I feel her heart rate accelerate, and she radiates worry.
“Then why do I detect some unease in your tone?” I ask as we head up the flagstone walkway, past a beautiful cactus garden, leading to her front door, which is an expensive wrought-iron piece made by hand. I know workmanship, and this is lovely. The adobe-style home, too, is impressive—several stories high, large windows, and exposed wooden beams protruding from the roofline.
She pulls a key from her brown leather purse—the one I snooped through yesterday. “I don’t know. It’s just…” She looks up at me with those brown eyes. “They said my neck was broken and my skull was fractured. How can I feel fine after that? It’s just not possible.”
Yesterday at the hospital she joked about “the miracle,” but now it’s all catching up to her, and I’m not surprised. I recall the topic coming up with Clive once when we discussed the healing properties of our blood. Clive said that in order to avoid suspicion, we must allow the person to come to their own conclusion, which they normally do—divine intervention, an incorrect diagnosis to begin with, or complete denial. The human brain is wired to explain the unexplainable because mysteries make them feel like their lives lack control. It makes humans feel vulnerable.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” I say.
She looks at her hand, the one holding the key and turning the lock. “I’ve never heard of anything that could explain a person coming back from the edge of death in the space of twelve hours.”
I raise my brows. “That soon? Wow. Really does sound mysterious. Or…human error?” I suggest, realizing that I have just broken my own damned rule. Let her come to her own conclusions. It is not as if she’s miraculously going to believe in vampires and guess that I helped her live.
“I wish I knew, but I suppose that’s what books are for. To help us make sense of our lives.” She pushes open her front door, and my jaw hits the floor.
I step inside the small foyer, with gleaming hardwood floors, to get the full view of her massive living room. “Wow.” Her public library is miniature compared to this.
The circular living room is an open, three-story space with a domed glass ceiling. The second and third floors, similar to the library, are really just catwalks with wrought-iron railings and ten layers of shelves. The floor space is the size of an ice hockey rink, perhaps two hundred feet across.
I turn to Miriam. “What did you say your parents did?”
“My mother was a librarian, but my father came from old money. His family built this collection over hundreds of years.”
“This is incredible,” I say. “How many books are here?”
“Compared to the great libraries of the world, it’s very modest sized—about five million items—but that includes maps, sheet music, and vinyl. We have a basement and additional rooms in the east wing.”
For the first time in, well, I cannot remember, I have no words.
I go to the center of the room—where there are several fine leather couches, an exquisite Persian rug, and an enormous coffee table—and do a slow three-sixty. “Remember when I said that I reject all forms of attachments derived from materialism? Forget that. I’d gold dig the hell out of you for this many books. I have a complete book boner.”
“What!” Miriam bursts out laughing.
I smile, but I’m not entirely joking. I mean… “Really, I do not think any sane man could possibly resist a woman with this many books. It’s entirely too sexy.”
She goes into hiccup-laughter mode. “Oh, God. Stop.” Tears form in her eyes as she tries to stand upright. “You’re killing me.”
“What?” I hold out my hands, not getting what’s so funny.
Her laughter finally sputters out. “Thank you for that. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.”
I look at her glowing face and feel the joy in her words as they flow from her heart into mine.
“I am glad to make you laugh when you’ve had a rough…” Whatthedevil? I freeze and my skin goes ice cold.
“Michael? What’s wrong?”
It takes a moment for my brain to process, but there is a strong smell in the air. Vampire! A vampire has been here, and it wasn’t Lula, Clive, Aspen, or anyone else I know.
“We must go,” I say, dreading another trip outside in that sunshine. But it is not safe here.
“What? Why?”
I can’t tell her why. “I have a bad feeling.”
Miriam’s eyes frown, but her pink little lips smile. “You’re being paranoid. This place is a fortress.”
No. It is not. A vampire has most definitely been in here. My best guess would naturally be another of Bob Kline’s associates.
Nevertheless, I have no explanation to offer Miriam, and, certainly, disclosing what I am is not a choice.
“Ummm—okay. Don’t laugh, but…” I look down at Miriam. “I’m psychic,” I lie.
Her attempt to humor me lasts all of three seconds. “Ha! Okay! You had me there for a minute.”
“No.” I grab her arm firmly. “I am not joking, Miriam. And if I must prove it, I will tell you that the last thing you cooked in the kitchen was microwaved meatloaf,” it has a strange scent, as it is not real meat and smells of chemicals, “you use Pantene shampoo,” I can smell it in her hair, and it’s a commonly used product for women in this age, “and though you love this house with everything in your soul because it reminds you of your beloved mother and father, some days you want to burn it all to the ground because it pains you to think about them and you want to move on.” That last part was a guess, but I had to go for it.
Miriam’s tiny pink lips part and her mouth flaps. “How—how do you know all that?”
I stare with my dark eyes into hers, projecting my sincerity. “Because I am psychic. It’s not a lie.” And for the final nail in the coffin: “There are chocolate chip cookies hidden behind that book.” I point to a thick leather-bound edition of The Anthropology of Modern Man.
“How did you…nobody knows…” She closes her flapping mouth and places a hand over her heart. “Wow. Okay. Okay. There are stranger things in the universe, so…okay.” She throws her hands up.
That was easy. Is there a giant red plastic button to thank?
“So what do we do now?” she asks.
I’m taken off guard. I didn’t expect her to believe me so quickly. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We’ll figure out next steps once you are somewhere safe.” Obviously, she is safe at my side. There isn’t a vampire who can best me. Nevertheless, I would rather not risk a confrontation with my precious librarian in the midst.
My cell phone vibrates, and I pull it from my pocket. It’s Lula. “Hello?”
“Mr. Vanderhorst! Ohmygod. Ohmygod!” Lula screams.
In the two hundred years that I’ve known Lula, she has never once screamed my name like that, and it spikes a chill through my heart. “What’s happened?”
“They’re dead. All of them.”
My mind scrambles. “Who? Where are you?”
“The people at the creepy cartel ranch. I went early to scope it out, but I could smell the bodies from ten miles away. There must be fifty dead people here—all sucked dry.”
What the carnations? I do not have a clue what to make of it. “Leave. Leave now. I’ll meet you at our place.”
“See you there.”
The call ends, and I look down at Miriam. Every cell in her body pulses with fear.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I place my hand on her cheek and hope my voice calms her. “Nothing I cannot fix.”
She nods and places her hand over mine. The heat of her touch is soothing. “I can’t do this, Michael.”
“Sorry.” I snatch my hand away, feeling her distress.
“No. I don’t mean that. You—we—are fine. I mean, this place and that library are all I have. These books are my life. If Bob Kline and his goons want to try to take them from me, then I would rather die fighting than give up.”
I smile softly at her feisty little face.
“Then it is a fight they shall get, Miriam. And it is a fight I will help you win. But we must make our move a calculated one when the time is right. Understand?”
She looks at me, and I feel the warmth of affection glowing inside her. “Are you sure you’re eighteen?”
“I am twenty. Why do you ask?”
“Because I could swear just now I was speaking with a man from the Dark Ages.”
“Nope. Restoration Era, all the way.”
She chuckles, thinking it’s a joke. “I love that you get the difference—I need to meet your parents someday. They’ve done an amazing job of educating you.”
I flash a tight smile. “Sure.” We can visit their three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old graves at the First Presbyterian Church of Southold in New York. From what I could gather, they expired a few years after I turned during a flu epidemic in the colonies. Sadly, because I’d been sent to school near London at the age of ten, I hardly knew either of them. I was raised by a governess and not a very nice one. She was the first person I ate—something I feel bad about even until this day. But for the record, she was really mean.
I clear my throat. “Let us leave the topic of family off the table.” I walk to the front door and hold it open for Miriam.
She gives me the oddest of looks, and if I had to interpret her emotions, I would guess that she’s becoming extremely suspicious. She feels I am hiding something.
And she would be right.