To Catch a Vampire Read online

  Oh. My. God.

  No way … is that … my mouth drops open. A naked woman! There is a naked woman—naked!—lounging in a deck chair on the top floor! She’s totally naked! What the heck kind of place is this with people being naked in public? Shame, don’t these people know the word? I swear that if Oliver picked the only nudist hotel in Dallas, I’ll stake him myself. If the driver notices Lady Godiva up there, he doesn’t show it. Or worse, maybe he’s used to it.

  A man in a crisp white shirt and khakis strides out of the double doors just as the van reaches the brick steps. He’s a tad younger than me with curly blonde hair and a perfect jaw line. Even the staff is beautiful in the vampire world. That red-headed stepchild feeling creeps back. No way they’ll believe Oliver and I are an item.

  We’re so going to be killed.

  The preppy hunk opens my door. “Mrs. Smythe?” he asks in an adorable Texas drawl. “Welcome to the Dauphine.” He holds out his hand to help me out of the car, which I take. I need all the help I can get in these heels. The heat and humidity hit, and I’m immediately in a sauna. I think I can actually feel my hair frizzing. “Hot enough for you, ma’am?” Golden boy chuckles. He leads me up the stairs to the door.

  “What about—”

  “We’ll take your bags and companion to the room. Don’t you worry.”

  What, me, worry?

  We walk through the doors, both of which have stained glass windows with a blooming rose, as the van rolls away. Strangely, my anxiety spikes as the van disappears from view. I’m alone. Oliver’s totally helpless—literally dead to the world—but not having him close scares the snot out of me. Not that he could do anything, but still.

  I jump when the gorgeous man touches my arm. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Um, just tired, thank you.”

  “Right this way. I’m Cole, by the way. Anything you need, I’m your man. We’ll get you to your room as quick as we can.”

  Cole leads me past the winding wraparound staircase and oil paintings of men dressed in animal skins or Confederate uniforms holding guns. Compared to outside, the house is as dark as a well. The walls are covered with rich purple wallpaper with black Fleur-de-lis patterns up and down. Brown mahogany furniture complete with a grandfather clock fills the small space. At the top of the stairs hangs a painting that would cover the entire ceiling of my old apartment. In it, a woman with dark brown hair pinned up with only curly ringlets free, latté Latin skin, red bee-stung lips, and a huge pink dress to rival Scarlet O’Hara’s lounges in a chair. Pre–Civil War. “That’s Marianna De Fuerte,” Cole says. “She owns the hotel. If you ask, she’ll tell you who was better in bed, General Santa Ana or Davy Crockett.” Huh. I wonder if he wore the coonskin cap to bed.

  Cole gently takes my arm, guiding me into the study. Two dark green leather chairs sit in the corner next to a matching fainting couch. More paintings fill the remaining two walls. The one of the Regency foxhunt is particularly bold. Men with guns watch smiling as two hounds rip apart what was once a fox. Lovely.

  “Please have a seat,” Cole says as he sits behind the desk that holds the only thing from the last century. Even vampires have jumped into the computer age.

  I sit in the tall chair across from him. “All my credit cards are in my bags,” I lie. I doubt Beatrice Smythe has one.

  “There’s no need. Your companion already wired the first three night’s fee into the account.”

  “Of course he did,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m totally tired. Long night, long flight.” And my hangover headache is creeping back.

  “Then I will try to make this as fast as possible,” he says typing away. “I have you in 303 with an excellent view of both the garden and front lawn. Mr. Puccio and his consort are the only others on that floor.”

  “Will they be able to hear us?” Vampires have super-hearing, and I don’t want Mr. Puccio to hear shoptalk … or us not having sex. “I mean …”

  “All the rooms are soundproof, ma’am.” The printer starts whirring and spitting out papers.

  “Great.”

  With a smile, Cole hands me the pages and a fountain pen. “Please sign on the second page.”

  I scan the first page. Blah, blah, blah, responsible for all damages. Blah, blah, blah no fires or holy items allowed. Blah, blah, blah when in town must follow all laws and decrees of Lord Frederick St. Clair without question. Breaking the last rule is punishable by death. Death? That seems a bit harsh.

  “I’m sorry, but what laws and orders are the death ones?”

  “All. It’s a standard clause. It just means we can’t intervene on your behalf should something happen. You haven’t seen it before? It’s standard at all hotels.”

  “Um, my husband is usually the one who handles these things,” I say, doing my ditz impression. With a smile, I sign. “Are there any strange rules the Lord has that I should know about? Am I allowed to wear white shoes after Labor Day, or will he chop off my feet?”

  Vampires have their own type of government, or I guess aristocracy is a better word. Each territory has a Lord or Lady who oversees the others and keeps the peace, like a governor. Other vamps pay taxes and basically do whatever the Lord wants; in return, they get protection and community. How big a territory depends on how much a Lord is willing to face off against other equally powerful vamps to expand. According to my reading, it doesn’t happen often. The last documented case was fifty years ago when the Lord of Phoenix fought the Lady of Tucson. The Lady now controls the entire state of Arizona. The biggest territory covers Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming, but it’s not the most happening spot.

  More common is the fight to become a Lord or Lady. Vamps give the phrase “hostile takeover” a whole new meaning. The only way to kill the reigning monarch is in a duel, Musketeer style, until only one stands. If you poison them or something else sneaky, it doesn’t count. Regardless, these duels don’t happen often. Lords act like Tony Soprano, banishing or just plain killing anyone they see as a threat. I’d rather be a rogue like Oliver, without allegiance.

  The only vamp higher than a Lord is the King or Queen, depending what land mass you’re on. North America has two, one supposedly in New York and the other in Vancouver. They split the continent right down the middle. Their identities are secret and they only reveal themselves when you’ve been naughty and they’ve come for your head. Literally.

  “When your husband rises, he’ll have to sign too.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Good, then let me show you to your room,” he says, standing.

  I rise, wobbling a little. “Thank you.”

  I follow him out and up the stairs. “Right now we have three other couples staying, including a celebrity.” He leans in and whispers, “Jim Morrison.”

  “The Doors’ Jim Morrison?”

  “Yes, but he’s checking out first thing tonight.”

  “Oh. Too bad.” Him, I’d like to meet.

  We start down a dark hallway where gas candelabras hang from the ceiling. The flames flicker inside the glass bulbs. Reminds me of the gas lamp district in San Diego. Quaint, but dangerous. The paintings are even more interesting. I pass one of a tall vase with wildflowers, and in the next frame a serene meadow of tall grass wafting in the wind. The following one stops me in my four-inch heels. A pale, beautiful woman dressed in a pitch-black cloak hovers over a naked sleeping man in repose, his red hair lying like a fan on a pillow. And his throat is covered in blood.

  “Mistress Marianna painted that one,” Cole says. “Striking, isn’t it?”

  “It’s … something else.” I am so locking, bolting, and welding my door shut tonight. I stare at my boots the rest of the way to the staircase.

  “Is this your first time in Dallas?” Cole asks.

  “Yes. Oliver, my husband, has friends here.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but are y’all really married?”

  Crud. I am going to stake that creep for not sharing our cover story with me.
“Um, yes, in … Vegas. About a year ago. I wouldn’t let him, um, bite me otherwise.”

  “Oh.”

  “My parents love him.” Shut up, you idiot! We reach the top of the stairs and enter another hallway. More paintings and gaslights. The bay window at the end is the only thing making it possible to see. “The house looks good for being so old. It’s pre–Civil War, right?”

  “Yes. Mistress Marianna kept almost everything the same as it was originally.”

  “Wait … no electricity or indoor plumbing?”

  “Oh, no. There was a massive renovation back in the fifties. Bathrooms, lights, air conditioning, even an elevator was added when the hotel opened.” Cole stops in front of a door with a metal fence across it. A thick metal wire is the only thing visible down the dark hole. “I have to ask that you refrain from using the elevator, however. Safety issues.”

  “Not a problem.”

  The door creaking behind us startles me. Creepy old houses give me the chills, even in the best of circumstances. Both Cole and I turn, but only my mouth drops open. Walking out the door is the naked woman. Still naked. And she’s not a natural blonde. I’m staring, I know I’m staring bug eyed and gawking, but she’s just so … naked! And walking toward us. Smiling. If I weren’t trying so hard not to giggle, I’d hate this woman. Long, straight hay-colored hair. Full red lips. Unnatural, gravity-defying breasts to rival Pamela Anderson’s. Long, lean legs without a hint of fat on them. Ugly stepsister, meet porno Cinderella.

  “Hello,” the woman says.

  “Hi,” I mumble, eyes finally moving down to the hardwood floor. I have a feeling I’m going to know the floors here quite well.

  “Cole, has my Gucci come back from the tailor yet?” the nudist asks.

  “It should be done tomorrow,” Cole says. “There was extreme ripping.”

  “When Sal gets in the mood …,” she giggles. Eww. I hate it when people share details of their sex lives. It happens at least once a month, more now that Irie’s getting some. Positions, costumes, yuck. Thank goodness for soundproof rooms. “Are you just checking in?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, not looking up.

  “Gloria Van Buren,” she says, holding out her hand at chest level.

  It’s like a train wreck. I have to look. Darn, if those are real then I’m the Queen of Sheba. “Beatrice Smythe,” I say shaking her hand but staring at the watermelons.

  “Wonderful, aren’t they?” Gloria asks. “Present from Sal. He doesn’t age, why should I? I can give you the name of my surgeon if you like.”

  My face heats up. “I’m good, thanks,” I say.

  “So, I guess we’re going to be neighbors for the next few days. Maybe we can do some shopping or other … things.” She starts slowly running her finger over the top of my hand. Her suggestive smile turns up the furnace under my face. I pull my hand away.

  “Sure. We can play Monopoly,” I chuckle nervously.

  Her smile widens. “You’re funny. I like that in a woman.”

  The elevator begins whirring. Oh, thank you Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “That’ll be my husband,” I chuckle. “I better take care of him.”

  “Of course,” Gloria says. “The four of us should have drinks tonight.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll see what he says.”

  “And if you get bored or lonely, I’ll be just next door.”

  Not in a hundred million years. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Cole,” she says with a nod. Turning around, showing a perfect upside-down-heart-shaped heinie, she walks back to her room. Wonderful. There’s a nymphomaniac next door. When Oliver stops being dead meat at sunset, he’s dead meat.

  The elevator stops, and Cole opens the gate. My “husband’s” black, pod-like coffin waits on a folding stand with our suitcases right on top. A man in a white tank top, exposing steroid-sized muscles and bald head, pushes it out of the elevator. Cole leads the way to our room, pulling out two keys. He unlocks the door handle first, then the top dead bolt. Good, big on security. Cole opens the door and steps aside as the man pushes Oliver in like a room service tray. I step in next.

  It’s dark in here, more than it should be. I really don’t think it’s in the government budget if I break a hundred-thousand-dollar vase, so I stay by the door. Cole, with no problem seeing in the near pitch dark, picks up a black blob and a motor begins humming. Slowly, light filters in as two slats lift, revealing windows and trees outside. I’ll say one good thing about Oliver; he has great taste in hotels. The room’s as big as a normal house’s living room with an antique armoire, small desk, plush white carpet, and periwinkle French silk lounging chair that matches the walls. The huge man reaches under the king-size four-poster bed and pulls out a wooden stand long enough to fit the coffin.

  While the men move the casket, I meander around the room. Good, only paintings of flowers and meadows. The bed has half a dozen pillows the same baby blue as the thousand thread count sheets. A white and blue comforter completes the bed set. It’s … charming. Not at all what I expected. No mirrors on the ceiling or animal prints. I’ll bet there isn’t even a heart-shaped tub in the bathroom. Two vases full of sunflowers and blue irises sit on top of the dresser and between the huge windows. I walk over to the dresser and smell.

  “Are the flowers to your liking?” Cole asks, looking up from the coffin.

  “Yes. They’re my favorites.” And they are.

  “I know. Your husband wanted to make sure the room was perfect.”

  I can’t believe he remembered my favorite flowers. I told them to Nancy once in passing when she was doing one of those meme quizzes. Oliver was in the room reading. Huh. Well, it was nice of him. “It’s very cozy,” I say. I walk to the closed door on my right, opening it. Wow, nice bathtub. Claw footed and deep enough to fit all of Lake Arrowhead. I know where I’m spending my downtime. Hey, a robe. I pull it off the hanger. Soft as a rabbit. This place sure beats the Days Inn where we normally stay.

  “Mrs. Smythe?” Cole calls.

  “Yes?” I say stepping out of the bathroom.

  “We’ve finished.”

  “Oh.” Both men just stare at me for a few moments. “Oh! Tip!” I run over to the suitcases on the other side of the bed to get my purse. Crud, all I have is five dollars in singles. “Um …” I hand Cole three dollars and the rest to muscles. “Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to get to the bank before we came.”

  Muscles rolls his eyes and walks out. Cole, smiling sympathetically, pockets the money. “Not a problem.” He pulls out three keys and hands them to me. “Here are your room keys and the key to your automobile in the garage on the side of the house.”

  I take them. “Thank you.”

  “The remotes for the windows and television are on the dresser,” he says, pointing. “The windows themselves open onto the patio.” He opens the armoire to reveal a flat-screen television. “The television has three hundred channels. Room service is twenty-four hours, just dial 66. The menu is located in the desk along with the phone book. If you need to secure jewels or cash, we have a safe downstairs. The number for the front desk is 77. Any questions?”

  “Nope.”

  “Every night at sundown room service brings two pints of complimentary warm blood. More can be ordered at an additional charge. Around seven every night Mistress Marianna hosts an informal get-together. You can meet the other guests and chat.”

  “We’ll try to make it.”

  “Excellent. Pool, hot tub, sauna outside in the back. Now, most of the hotel is accessible, but if a door is locked or there is a restricted sign, please don’t enter. I believe that’s it. Anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a polite nod, he walks out, shutting the door behind him. I dead bolt it. God, I thought he’d never leave. First things first. I hop on the bed and literally strip off my boots. Oh, God … that feels good. I wiggle my toes until the feeling returns. Next: off come the fishnets. I toss them
next to the evil shoes. That is so much better. If it didn’t take so long, I’d take it all off and be as naked as my next-door neighbor. At least I’d fit in.

  I have about an hour and a half before sundown, and there is no way I’m leaving this room without backup. Well, that and I don’t want to put the evil shoes on again. I know; I’ll unpack. No, I don’t want to do that. If we have to leave in a hurry, I don’t want clothes to slow us down. Instead, I pull out the menu and order dinner after careful perusal. Lamb chops with asparagus and antipasto. Over thirty bucks, but I’m not paying. Thank you, taxpayers. Still have over an hour to kill now. The black duffel bag on the floor catches my interest.

  Geez, it’s heavy. Easily sixty pounds. I manage to get it on the bed and unzip it. Holy cow, which country are we invading? I pull out an honest-to-goodness silver sword, laying it on the bed. Next are three guns: two 9mm and one snub nosed .38 with black holsters. Five—no, six—boxes of silver bullets. We have them specially made with little crosses on the tips. Burns vamps bad, as if a bullet hole wasn’t bad enough. Next, a Taser that crackles when I push the button. Under that, a stiletto with a cross on either side of the blade. Then out comes the silver and garlic pepper spray, along with a sawed-off shotgun, rounds, two pairs of handcuffs, and finally, my Bette.

  I feel safer with her in my hands. Bette is my machete, souvenir from my first case. She’s been improved, if that’s at all possible. The weapon maker who does our bullets dipped her in silver. She’s over a foot and a half of shining, severing beauty. I added the yellow flowers and wrote her name on the blade in red nail polish. A girl should always look her best when chopping. I don’t leave home without her.

  I return the weapons to the bag, shoving it under the bed. Oddly, I feel a lot better now. Sure, I only know how to use a few of the weapons effectively, but at least they’re there. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to use a single one of them. I scoff. Raise your hand if you think that’s going to happen.