The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

Apparently this James P. Storm was a pretty popular guy. A line filled mostly with titillated women wended itself through the store, out the front door, and around the building.



I was in the wrong business.



Many of those standing in line were clutching various books. I noted that most of the covers were darkish and gloomy and seemed to scream vampire.



Inside, the Borders was everything a super bookstore should be, and perhaps a little more. This one, it seemed, had three stories. That's a shitload of books.



I silently vowed to read more someday. Maybe then I'll finally figure out what the hell a Kindle is.



James P. Storm was nowhere to be found, having yet to make his grand appearance. As I cruised the bookstore, following the long line of excitedly chatting women, I looked for Veronica. Would have been nice if I found her standing there wielding a stake, but no such luck.



At the front of the line, which ended up at the second floor in the mystery section, I found myself at a long table draped in a red table cloth and stacked high with gloomy-looking vampire books. A life-sized cardboard cut-out of James P. Storm leaned against an easel next to the table.



I walked over to the cut-out. Storm wasn't a bad-looking guy. Certainly nothing to write home about, although he seemed to take himself a little too seriously for someone who simply wrote vampire novels.



And that tan. Sweet Jesus. The man looked practically radioactive.



I tried to imagine him pouncing on Veronica's mother and father, ripping open their throats, and drinking from them. I couldn't do it. Mostly, I couldn't imagine him tearing himself away from a tanning bed.



I checked the time: 1:50.



His Royal Tannedness would be appearing soon, no doubt to the delight of those waiting in line for God knows how long. I moved away from the table and checked out the security set-up. A single policeman was standing off to the side, near an "Employee Only" door. He didn't look happy about his assignment. I didn't blame him. I scanned the crowd and spotted two security guards patrolling the line. The security guards looked a little more into it.



I knew from Detective Sparks that a plainclothes officer was in the store as well, looking for anything unusual. Granted, an endless line of chattering women waiting for a too-tan man seemed unusual enough, but whatever.



I noted that one of the security guards had a piece of paper rolled up in his back pocket. The paper and the partial image I saw looked familiar. It was Veronica, an image no doubt distributed by the police. Good, there was nowhere for her to hide or to run. We were going to find her, and save her from herself.



Or, at least, that was the plan.



I checked my cell. Five minutes to go.



She was here, somewhere. I knew it. I felt it. But so far no one matched her description: that of a tall, dark haired, seventeen-year-old girl with murder in her eyes.



A murmur began behind me. The murmur turned into outright cheers and clapping. I turned to see a tall man emerge from a backroom door, escorted by two very serious-looking Borders employees and another police officer.



James P. Storm waved to his adoring fans, flashed a white smile, and took a seat at the long table. He picked up a pen, nodded to one of the Borders employees, and the first in line was permitted to stand before the table. Both policemen took up their positions to either side of the author. Both policemen looked as if they would rather be anywhere but here. One actually yawned.



As I stood watching the scene from about fifty feet away, I couldn't help but notice that Storm seemed frail and sickly, despite his brilliant tan.



Fake tan, I suddenly thought.



So fake that I suspected it could have been make-up. I had lived in Hollywood long enough to have seen my fair share of fake tans. Bronzers they call them. Something you rub on the skin. No sun required.



Perfect for a vampire.



I should have laughed at the notion. I should have banished it from my thoughts. I should have done anything but take it seriously. But it suddenly made some sense. Weird, strange, incomprehensible sense. Oxymorons on top of oxymorons.



I frowned and watched him smile brightly at the next girl in line. He took her book with an equally tan hand, and spoke quietly to her, smiling, and then leaned over and wrote something inside the book. As he wrote, I noted a change in his pleasant expression.



He wasn't smiling now; indeed, he looked like he was in pain. Or deathly ill.



Like a vampire forced into the light of day?



I shook my head. Craziness.



As he handed back the book to the young lady, his white long sleeve rode up his arm a little, and I couldn't help but notice the fanged head of a snapping dragon. A helluva big tattoo. No doubt that beast wrapped all the way up his arm, and probably then some.



Don't get caught up in the craziness, I thought. Lots of people have dragon tattoos.



And then Storm turned his head slightly and caught my eye and something very close to a chill coursed through me. He gave me a half smile and nodded and held my eyes for a half a second. He squinted a little and then he turned back to the next girl, smiling brightly at her, as well.



What the hell had that been about?



I didn't know, but there was nothing more to see here on the second floor. I had just turned toward the escalator, when I stopped short and almost gasped.



Almost, but I kept my composure.



It was her, Veronica the Vampire Slayer.