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“But I found it.”
“Yes, you did. Gilbert Wainwright, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.
“Jane Jameson.” I reached out to shake it, then shrieked as my fingers brushed the silver band he wore around his middle finger. I yowled, and my fangs extended. A defense mechanism, I suppose, kind of like cursing when you touch a hot iron. I drew back my hand and watched the dirty gray streak across my palm fade away.
“How interesting,” he said, his voice tinged with awe as he stared at his ring. “It’s still thrilling to meet one of your kind, you know. The Great Coming Out was a dream come true for me. As a boy, I used to pretend I was a vampire hunter on a mission to kill Dracula. Or I would pretend I was the vampire, stalking the foggy streets of London for a tasty lady of ill repute.”
“You must have had a very interesting childhood,” I said, suppressing a smirk.
I don’t think he heard me, because he continued, “It came as absolutely no surprise to me that vampires lived among us, so to speak. I’ve devoted my entire life to studying the paranormal. Ghosts, demons, the living dead, the undead, were-creatures. I’ve always found it all fascinating. But still, it gives me a zing whenever I see that.” He nodded at my healing palm.
“Gave me a zing, too,” I said, my fangs snagging my lip when I smiled.
He took a moment to get the joke and laughed uproariously. “Yes, yes, in the future, I suppose it would be more polite to offer vampires my left hand.”
“Or you could take the ring off,” I suggested.
“Oh, no,” he said, absently stroking the worn band. “I never take it off.”
“OK, then. Not cryptic at all.” I chuckled. “You have an interesting selection here, Mr. Wainwright. How much of this was added after the Coming Out?”
He gave me a curious look.
“You had books on vampire diets and after-death tax issues before you knew for sure that we existed? ” I asked. He nodded. “Do you have any books on ancient vampire laws? Because I’m pretty sure I’m getting hosed on a murder rap.”
“Actually, no, but I can probably find something if you give me a few days,” Mr. Wainright said, apparently unimpressed by my mentioning the murder thing. This made me wonder about his clientele. “So much of my business is handled online now, I just don’t have time to keep things up here at the store.”
“You sell online?”
“Eighty percent of my sales are online. My Web site registers fifty thousand hits per month.” A smirk lifted the wrinkles at his mouth. “Loyal customers and eBay are enough to keep me going. Just last week, I sent three volumes on were -monkeys to Sri Lanka.”
“Were-monkeys?” I repeated, unsure if he was joking.
Obviously upset by my lack of familiarity with were-monkeys, Mr. Wainwright gave me a copy of A Geographical Study of Were-Creatures. He explained that he became familiar with the more exotic weres while he served in World War II. After that, he continued to pursue his interests abroad. There are some things you just can’t study in the Hollow. He’d returned home thirty years earlier to tend to his ailing mother, who had died only the previous year.
I scanned the shop. It had so much potential. And now, with the emerging vampire population, there was an emerging market. And I’d be able to work around books again. The schedule would be flexible, and the boss seemed to understand, nay, embrace, my special needs. Sure, there wouldn’t be a lot of kids in an occult bookshop, but you can’t ask for everything.
“I don’t suppose you’d be looking for a shop assistant, would you? ” I asked. “I could box and ship orders, do some shelving, maybe a little light cleaning. I could start off part-time, night hours, obviously, on a trial basis to see whether it works out.”
Mr. Wainwright chewed his lip thoughtfully and patted his pockets. It looked as if he was searching for his glasses, which were perched on top of his head. I plucked them from his crown and pressed them gently into his hands. He smiled.
“I’ve worked in the public library for six years. I have a master’s in library science. I have experience helping people finding the right books for their needs.”
“It sounds like you might be overqualified, dear.”
“I’m not, really. I just want to work around books again.”
At the rear of the store, a bookcase collapsed, sending several leather-bound books skittering across the floor. He lifted a scraggly white eyebrow. “Perhaps you could start off with some reorganization,” he said, looking at the neat stacks of books I’d arranged around us. “You seem to have a steady hand at that.”
I had learned my lesson from Greenfield Studios, so we sat down to discuss schedules, pay scale, distribution of responsibilities, and the fact that at some point, he was going to want to see a copy of my résumé. I left the shop feeling considerably lighter than before. I believe happy people call this emotion hope.
I got as far as the parking lot before I ducked my head back through the door, thanked my new boss, and said, “Mr.
Wainwright, do me a favor, if you meet a woman named Ruthie Early, don’t marry her.”
I emerged from my first night shift at Specialty Books covered in dirt and suffering several injuries that would have probably resulted in tetanus before I was turned. But I was happier than I ’d been in weeks. It was like being given a glimpse into my life before my firing.
My first order of business was cleaning. I chased several generations of spiders from the storage closet with a very large broom. I scrubbed the windows until you could actually see outside. (I remained undecided about whether that was a good thing.) I hauled away the broken shelves and organized the stock into piles by subject. I had not found Mr. Wainwright ’s office or computer, but I did find what could have been a blueberry muffin petrifying in the back of the cash -register drawer. Also a small vial of dirt, a mummified paw of some sort, a pack of Bazooka, and currency issued by twelve governments, three of which had collapsed.
