Here Comes the Vampire
Read Here Comes the Vampire Online
Authors: Kimberly Raye
Tags: #Paranormal, #Vampires, #Literature & Fiction, #Romance
Here Comes the Vampire
Kimberly Raye
Copyright © 2013 by Kimberly Raye
All rights reserved.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing is a solitary process, but there are those that make it
so
much easier. I am blessed to have some truly amazing people in my life.
Natasha Kern, the best agent in the business who has helped me through so many things in my life and cagen through reer. You are the best!
Brenda Chin, the best editor in the business who has helped me through so many things in my life and career.
You
are the best!
And Curt Groff, the hottest husband in the world. You fill out a pair of Wranglers even better than Ty Bonner and for that I am extremely lucky. You are my real life hero.
DEDICATION
To my wonderful, wonderful readers!
I wouldn’t have made it through this book without your support and encouragement.
You are all the greatest blessing in my life!
CHAPTER ONE
I never should have sucked down that last Naked Virgin.
Shoving my head under the pillow, I prayed for the bed to open up and swallow me whole. No more pounding skull or swirling stomach or aching muscles. And the dreams... Sheesh, if I pictured myself humping Elvis in the glass elevators of the Mayan Resort and Casino one more friggin’ time, I was going to aim for the nearest stake.
My name? The Countess Lilliana Arrabella Guinevere du Marchette (I think). I’m a five hundred year-old (and holding) born vampire. When I’m not lying catatonic, praying to the BMVITS (that’s short for Big Momma Vamp in the Sky) to please, please,
please
put me out of my misery, I play head honcho at Dead End Dating, Manhattan’s hottest matchmaking service for vampires, weres, Others and even the occasional human. While I was—at the moment—miserable on holiday in Vegas, I typically called the Big Apple home-sweet-home. I’ve got an ultra chic fashion sense, an ever-expanding collection of MAC cosmetics and a fierce bod that’s landed me more than my share of super hot boyfriends.
The latest and the crème de la crème? A hot, hunky bounty hunter who wouldn’t be caught dead with lamb chop sideburns and a white jumpsuit.
Which made the whole Elvis scenario that much more unnerving, ya know?
Ty Bonner aka Mr. Hot and Hunky, had been the star of each and every one of my fantasies since the day I’d met him. Yes, he was a made vampire which sort of put a crimp in the whole happily-ever-after thing I’d been cooking up since I was a pre-pubescent vamp. Unlike born
vamperes
, our made brethren couldn’t procreate. Meaning, I wouldn’t have to worry about having a little Vlad or a baby Morticia with Ty. But hey, I was okay with that. Really. If Brad and Ang could go the cross-racial adoption route, why not yours truly? Even more, I was about to be an auntie for the first time. I could
so
do the vicarious thing with my future niece or nephew.
At least that’s what I was telling myself.
But that’s beside the point. Bottom line? Ty was my leading man. When I closed my eyes and gave in to my most erotic thoughts, he was
always
there.
Until last night.
Forcing my eyes open, I stared at the ancient sun stone perched on the nightstand and tried to focus my watery gaze. Not that I could interpret said stone, but I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the digital read-out in the far corner for those guests less skilled in the art of primitive culture.
The Mayan was the newest five star attraction in Sin City, complete with oodles of pricey artifacts in addition to some very real looking reproductions. There were sacrificial altars and stone carvings and drinking vessels and incense burners, and even a small hanging tree located in the center of the casino.
Oh, and did I mention the lost souls?
Seriously.
They were everywhere.
Some nice. Some wicked. Some smtedDelly.
While I couldn’t actually
see
them (I’m a vampire, not the Ghost Whisperer), I could certainly take a hint. We’re talking bumps in the night, moving furniture,
eau de
rotting corpse and the occasional Kurt Cobain solo.
I’d received the complimentary stay from none other than Ixtab (affectionately known as Tabitha to all her BFFs), the Mayan Goddess of Death. She was my newest client at DED and had single-handedly saved my fantabulous ass not long ago from a demented sorcerer intent on pulling a
Silence of the Lambs
. I’d been so appreciative that I’d set her up on about a zillion dates. In return for all the fun she’d been having, she’d rewarded me with an all-expense paid weekend getaway.
Unfortunately, she’d passed out the freebies to my entire family, as well. I’d arrived at the resort on Friday night, followed by my brothers, their wives, my father, my mother, the executive board of my mother’s Connecticut Huntress Club (a group of snotty, pretentious, narcissistic female BVs who met once a month to play cards and brag about their grandchildren) and Remy Tremaine, chief of the Fairfield Police Department and my mother’s latest attempt to find me the perfect born vampire mate and nab her own
Grammy’s Little Devils
Brag Book.
Hence my excessive drinking.
I made one more attempt to check the time before giving up the effort and resting my head back against the ultra-plush down pillow. I tried to quiet the Linkin Park drum solo pounding in my head. And that singing... Would someone shut that guy
up
?
Yes, it was definitely official. No more naked virgins. Or chocolate martinis. Or yummy mojitos. Or those funny blue drinks with the cute little umbrellas. No lounging by the pool, soaking up the moon. No more gambling and begging my brothers for extra cash.
Nada.
It was D-day. Sunday. I was booked on an evening flight back to New York and my ever-fantabulous afterlife. All the more reason to haul myself up and get moving. I still had to pack and visit the downstairs boutiques.
I pictured the Chanel rhinestone tank I’d spotted when I’d checked in and gathered my resolve.
Several painful moments later, I managed to throw my legs over the side of the bed. I blinked once. Twice. There.
Hey, it’s all about the priorities.
I let the rhinestone image lure me to my feet before I took a good look at the mess that surrounded me. The open suitcase, the scattered clothes, the panties hanging from the light fixture—no, wait. That was my bra. My panties were nowhere in sight.
I had a fuzzy memory of my favorite thong coming off in the elevator a split-second before Elvis entered the building, if you know what I mean.
Nah.
Denial rushed through me at the same time that I became acutely aware of the sound of running water and the verse of
Love Me Tender
that drifted from the bathroom.
“...you have made my life compleeeeete...”
What the H-E-double-L?
“...and I love you sooooooo...”
My gaze snagged on the discarded silk blouse I’d been wearing last night and the round button pinned near the collar.
Here Comes the Bride!
blazed in bright pink letters and my stomach dropped to my knees. A few inches away, a white four-color brochure for the Hunka-Hunka Heartbreak Wedding Chapel lay crumpled on the thick carpet.
“...all my dreams fullllll-filllled. For my darling, I love you and I always willlllll...”
The elevator. The fanged and fabulous Elvis. The missing panties. The button. The brochure.
The pieces started to fit into a weird, twisted puzzle that sent a jolt of dread through me. Anxiety made my legs tremble as I rummaged in my suitcase for a pairCome for a of undies and my robe.
“Run,” a soft voice whispered. “While you still can.”
I whirled, robe in hand, and found myself staring at the translucent image of a woman standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows. She appeared to be in her forties with long red hair and a slim build. She wore a blue taffeta formal that made her look like an extra from
Prom Night Zombies
, matching satin shoes and elbow-length gloves. Oh, and let’s not forget the hair bow.
Ouch.
“My mother picked the outfit,” she said as if reading the horror in my gaze. “It was the only one left on account of Dewey, here,” she motioned to the apparition standing next to her, “cut up my clothes after he popped a cap in my ass.”
Dewey was tall and lanky with black hair and piercing black eyes. He’d probably been handsome at one point in his life, but now he had a hole in the middle of his forehead which took off major GQ points.
“Jesus, Mona. Can’t you forgive and forget?”
“I’m a
ghost
, for Jesus H. Christ’s sake. That’s a little hard to forget.”
“You act like it’s all my fault.”
She nailed him with a stare. “It
is
all your fault. You pulled the trigger, moron.”
“Well you bought the wrong orange juice,” he said as if that were reason enough. “I told you--buy the extra pulp. But did you listen? Heck, no.”
“I told you to pay for those anger management classes instead of buying that tool set off of eBay, but did
you
listen?
Heck, no
. And now we’re in this mess.”
“Ixtab took pity on us and brought us here instead of sending us down under,” Dewey explained when I arched a questioning eyebrow.
“You mean she took pity on your sorry ass,” Mona added. “I don’t deserve to go down under. I’m not the one who shot my wife.” Mona’s gaze met mine. “Ixtab has a weakness for suicide victims. When Dewey, here, turned the gun on himself, she couldn’t bring herself to doom him to hell for what he’d done. Something about him having a final moment of remorse, or some crazy shit like that. Now instead of spending my hereafter treating myself with free manicures and facials, I have to put up with my rat bastard husband following me around.” She shook her head before she leveled a pleading stare at me. “Run,” she added. “Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t saddle yourself with one man for the rest of your existence.”
The words tumbled out of my mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But I had the sinking feeling that I did.
My frantic brain noted a pair of discarded black pants and a John Varvatos jacket draped over the back of a nearby chair. A
Varooooom, I’m the Groom
sticker had been stuck to the lapel.
Obsession For Men
whispered through the air and tickled my nostrils.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Mona told me before glancing at the sun stone. “Oops. Gotta go. I’m due for a mud bath right now.”
“I hate mud baths,” Dewey grumbled. “They make me all itchy.”
“So go do something else.”
“Without you?”
She threw up her arms. “Why me?” she muttered.
The couple disappeared and I became acutely aware of the hard glass dangling between my breasts. I stared down at the small crystal vial filled with a dark crimson liquid. The vial was a symbol that all committed vamps wore suspended on a chain around their neck. It held a drop of their significant other’s blood. While it looked like a hip piece of jewelry to the average human, it symbolized the sacred union between born vamps.
A lump jumped into my throat and denial rushed through me.
Nuh, uh.
No wayw u="4%">N.
I didn’t...
I
couldn’t
...
Steam crowded around me as I pushed open the door and stepped into the marbled bathroom. The tile had been arranged in an ancient Mayan pattern, the sink a stone number that would have looked as if it had been plucked from the Mexican jungle if not for the ornate gold fixtures. The shower was one of those open designs with a digital keypad and multiple jets that blasted water from all angles.
Water sluiced over the muscular form of the male vampire standing center stage. He was tall and toned and tanned. And very blonde.