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As an afterthought, I moved Mr. Rychek’s remote from the coffee table to the top of the TV.
One more stop before I could put in my time at the booster meeting, go home, and bury myself in the romance novel I’d squirreled away inside the dust jacket for The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. If Gigi saw the bare-chested gladiator on the cover, the mockery would be inventive and, most likely, public.
My new client’s house was conveniently located in the newer section of Deer Haven, at the end of a long row of matching beige condos. As usual, I had to count the house numbers three times before I was sure I was at the right door, and I wondered how wrong it would be to mark my clients’ doors with big fluorescent-yellow bumblebees. And yes, I knew it seemed inconsistent to name a company that dealt with vampires after a sunny, summer-loving insect. But bees were so efficient, zipping from one place to another, never forgetting the task at hand. That was the image I wanted to convey. Besides, way too many vampire-oriented businesses went with a Goth theme. My cheerful yellow logo stood out in the “undead services” section of the phone book.
Entering the security code provided on his new-client application, I popped the door open, carrying my usual “Thank you for supporting Beeline” floral arrangement inside. Most vampires enjoyed waking up to fresh flowers. The sight and smell reminded them of their human days, when they could wander around in the daylight unscathed. And they didn’t have to know that I’d harvested the artfully arranged roses, irises, and freesias from my own garden. The appearance of an expensive gift was more important than the actual cost of said gift.
Mr. C. Calix certainly hadn’t wasted any money on redecorating, I mused as I walked into the bare beige foyer and set the vase on the generic maple end table. The place was dark, which was to be expected, given the sunproof metal shades clamped over the windows. But there was little furniture in the living room, no dining-room table, no art or pictures on the clean taupe walls. The place looked barely lived in, even for a dead guy’s house.
Scraping past a few cardboard packing boxes, I walked into the kitchen, where I’d agreed to leave the contracts. My foot caught on a soft weight on the floor. “Mother of fudge!” I yelped, then fell flat on my face.
Have I mentioned that I haven’t cursed properly in about five years? With an impressionable kid around the house, I’d taken to using the “safe for network TV” versions of curse words. Although that impressionable kid was now seventeen, I couldn’t seem to break the habit. Even with my face smashed against cold tile.
“Frak-frakity-frak.” I moaned, rubbing my bruised mouth as I righted myself from the floor. I ran my tongue over my teeth to make sure I hadn’t broken any of them. Because, honestly, I wasn’t sure I could afford dental intervention at this point. My skinned knees—and my pride—stung viciously as I counted my teeth again for good measure.
What had I tripped over? I pushed myself to my feet, stumbled over to the fridge, and yanked the door open. The interior light clicked on, illuminating the body stretched across the floor.
Shrieking, I scrambled back against the fridge, my dress shoes skittering uselessly against the tile. I couldn’t seem to swallow the lump of panic hardening in my throat, keeping me from drawing a breath.
His shirtless torso was well built, long limbs strung with thick cords of muscle. Dark waves of hair sprang over his forehead in inky profusion. The face would have been beautiful if it hadn’t been covered in dried blood. A straight nose, high cheekbones, and full, generous lips that bowed slightly. He had that whole Michelangelo’s David thing going—if David had been an upsetting religious figurine that wept blood.
A half-empty donor packet of O positive lay splattered against the floor, which explained the rusty-looking dried splotches on his face. Had he been drinking it when he … passed out?
Vampires didn’t pass out. And most of them could sense when to get somewhere safe well before the sun rose. They didn’t get caught off guard and collapse wherever they were at dawn. What the hell was going on here?
I eyed my shoulder bag, flung across the room when I’d fallen on my face. Breathing steadily, I resolved that I’d call Ophelia at the local World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead office and leave her a message. She would know what to do. And I could get the hell out of there before the hungry, ill vampire rose for the night and made me his breakfast.
I reached over him, aiming my arm away from his mouth. A strong hand clamped around my wrist. I am ashamed to say that I screamed like a little girl. I heard the telltale snick of fangs descending and panicked, yanking and struggling against a relentless vise grip. A tug-of-war ensued for control of the arm that he was pulling toward his chapped, bloodied lips. He tried to lunge for me, but the effort cost him, and his head thunked back to the floor with a heavy thud.
With my hand hovering precariously over his gaping, hungry mouth, I did the only thing I could think of—I poked him in the eye.
“Ow,” he said, dully registering pain as I jabbed my index finger against his eyelid. The other eye popped open, the long, sooty lashes fluttering. It was a deep, rich coffee color, the iris ringed in black.
“Ow!” he repeated indignantly, as if the sensation of the eye-poke was just breaking through his stupor.
With him distracted, I gave one final yank and broke free, holding my hand to my chest as I retreated against the fridge. I took another donor packet from the shelf. I popped it open and held it carefully to his lips, figuring that he wouldn’t care that it wasn’t heated to body temperature. He shook his head faintly, wheezing. “Bad blood.”
I checked the expiration date and offered it to him again. “No, it’s fine.”
His dry lips nearly cracked as they formed the words, “Poisoned … stupid.”
“OK … jerk,” I shot back.
The faintest flicker of amusement passed over his even features. “Need clean supply,” he whispered.
“Well, I’m not giving you mine,” I said, shrinking away from him. “I don’t do that.”
“Just wait to die, then,” he muttered.
I had to bite my lips to keep from snickering or giggling hysterically. I was sure that crouching over him, laughing, while he was vulnerable and agitated wouldn’t improve the situation.
Shouting for him to hold on, I scurried out to my car, carefully shutting the door behind me so that sunlight didn’t spill into the kitchen. I had a case of Faux Type O in the back, destined for Ms. Wexler’s house the next day. I grabbed three bottles from the package and ran back into the house. Sadly, it only occurred to me after I’d run back into the house that I should have just grabbed my purse, jumped into my van, and gunned it all the way home.
But no, I had to take care of vampires with figurative broken wings, because of my stupid Good Samaritan complex.
Kneeling beside the fallen vampire, I twisted the top off the first bottle and offered it to him. “I’m sure this is clean. I just bought it. The tamper-proof seal’s intact.”
