The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires (39 page)

“I’ll have bats in my belfry.” I giggled, scrubbing at my tired eyes.

“You feelin’ all right, ma’am?” Dwayne-Lee asked.

“Hmm?” I said, blinking blearily at him. “Oh, sorry, just a little out of sorts.”

I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket and handed him enough for my fare and a generous tip.

Dwayne-Lee cleared his throat. “Um, ma’am, I can’t take Monopoly money.”

I glanced down at the bills in my hands. They were the wrong color. I was trying to pay Dwayne Lee in euros. “Sorry.”

With Dwayne-Lee compensated in locally legal tender, I took my key out of Iris’s envelope, unlocked the door, and hauled my stuff inside. My half of the old Wainwright place consisted of two bedrooms and a bath upstairs, plus a parlor and a kitchen downstairs. It was a bit shocking to have this much room to myself. I was used to living in my Nana Fee’s tiny cottage, where I still whacked my elbows on the corner of the kitchen counter if I wasn’t careful.

At some point, the house appeared to have been decorated by a fussy old lady fond of dark floral wallpaper and feathered wall sconces. The house was old, but someone had paid some attention to its upkeep recently. The hardwood floors gleamed amber in the afternoon light. The stairs were recently refurnished and didn’t creak once while I climbed them. The turret room turned out to be a little sitting area off my bedroom, lined with bookshelves. I ran my fingers along the dusty shelves. I loved a good book. If I stayed long enough, I could put a little
reading chair there … if I had a reading chair. I’d need to do something about getting some more furniture.

Despite Aunt Penny’s assurances, the rooms were furnished in only the meanest sense. There was a table and chairs in the kitchen, a beaten sofa in the parlor, plus a dresser and bare mattress in the front bedroom. Sighing deeply and promising myself I wouldn’t mention this to my aunt, I drew the travel sack—a thin, portable sleeping bag for people who were phobic about touching hotel sheets—over the bare mattress. The travel sack was a Christmas gift from Stephen. I smiled at the thought of my dear, slightly anal-retentive boyfriend and resolved to call him as soon as it was a decent hour overseas.

I found blankets in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I wasn’t too keen on using them as covers, given their moldy state, but I thought they would make a good shade for the window so the sun wouldn’t keep me awake. I boosted myself against the dresser to hang one … only to observe that some sort of Greek statue had come to life in my garden.

He was built like a boxer, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, with narrow hips encased in ripped jeans. Thick sandy hair fell forward over his face while he worked. His sculpted chest was bare, golden, and apparently quite sweaty given the way it glistened while he planted paving stones near a pristine concrete patio.

I wavered slightly, grabbing the window frame, my weakening knees coupled with jet lag causing me to collapse a little. Was this my next-door neighbor? I wasn’t sure if I was comfortable living so close to a he-man who could lift giant stones as if they were dominoes. And when had it gotten so bloody hot in here? I hadn’t noticed I was warm in the cab … Oh, wait, it was time for he-man to take a water break. He took a few long pulls off a bottle from his cooler and dumped the rest over his head.

My jaw dropped, nearly knocking against my chest. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Just then, he looked up and spotted me ogling him from above. Our eyes connected …

And he winked at me like some lothario gardener out of a particularly dirty soap opera! I spluttered indignant nonsense before tucking the blanket over the window with a decisive shove.

I pressed my hands over dry, tired eyes. I didn’t have the mental reserves for this. I needed to sleep, eat, and bathe, most likely in that order. I would deal with the man reenacting scenes from
A Streetcar Named Desire
in my garden at a later date. My shoulders tense and heavy, I crawled onto the mattress, bundled my shirt under my head, and plummeted into sweet unconsciousness.

—

I woke up bleary and disoriented, unable to figure out where the hell I was. Why was it so dark? Was I too late? Were
they
here already? Where was my family? Why couldn’t I hear anyone talking? I lurched up from the mattress and snagged the blanket from the window, letting in the weak twilight.

As soon as I saw the paving stones, I remembered the flight, the mad taxi ride, and the Adonis in the back garden.

“Oh.” I sighed, scrubbing my hand over my face. “Right.”

I stumbled into the bath and splashed cool water on my face. The mirror reflected seven kinds of hell. My face was pale and drawn. My thick, coffee-colored hair was styled somewhere near “crazy cat lady,” and my normally bright, deep-set brown eyes were marked with dark smudges that weren’t entirely composed of mascara. I had my grandfather’s features, straight lines, delicate bones, and a particularly full bottom lip. Of course, that meant I looked like my mother, too, which was not something I liked to dwell on.

I stripped out of my clothes, standing under the lukewarm spray and letting it wash away the grime. Long after the water cooled, I climbed out of the tub, only to remember that I hadn’t thought to bring any towels into the bathroom with me. Aunt
Penny had stuffed a few into my suitcase because she knew the house wouldn’t have them. But my suitcase was downstairs, next to the door. And I was stark naked.

“Moron,” I cursed myself as I took a sprightly, shivering walk across the bedroom to retrieve my jacket. I took the stairs carefully—because I wasn’t about to die in a household accident wearing only an outdated rain jacket—and carefully avoided windows as I made my way to my luggage. The towels, somehow, still smelled line-fresh, like the lavender and rosemary in Nana Fee’s back garden. I pressed one to my face before wrapping it around my body toga-style.

I mentally blessed Aunt Penny for packing some ginger tea in my bag, which was good for post-flight stomachs. I retrieved the tea bags and cast a longing glance at the kitchen. Did the “furnished” bit include dishes and cups? I could function—I might even be able to dress myself properly—if I just had some decent tea in me. Even if it meant boiling the water in a microwave.

I shuddered. Blasphemy.

If I set the water to boil now, it would be ready by the time I picked out clothes. Multitasking would be the key to surviving here. There would be no loving aunties to make my afternoon tea, no uncles to pop into town if I needed something. I was alone here with my thoughts, for the first time in a long time. And considering my thoughts of late, that could be a dangerous thing.

“Staring into space isn’t going to get the tea made,” I chided myself. Securing my towel, I made my way to the stove, careful to avoid the windows. I didn’t know if my neighbor was doing his sweaty work out in the yard, and I didn’t fancy being winked at wearing this getup.

Setting the tea bags on the counter, I began rummaging through the cupboards, finding dirty, abandoned cookware, but no kettle or cups. I opened the top cupboard nearest the refrigerator and—

“ACCCK!” I shrieked at the sight of beady black eyes glaring out at me from the cupboard shelf. The furry gray creature’s mouth opened, revealing rows of sharp, white fangs. It swiped its paws at me, claws spread, and hissed like a brassed-off cobra.

I let loose a bloodcurdling scream and ran stumbling out of the kitchen, through a screened door, and into the moonless purple light of early evening. With my eyes trained behind me to make sure … whatever it was didn’t follow me, I slammed into a solid, warm object. The force of my momentum had me wrapping my arms and legs around it as I struggled away from the fanged menace.

“Oof!” the object huffed.

The object was a person. To be specific, the shirtless, sweaty person who’d been standing in my garden earlier. Dropping a couple of yard tools with a clank, he caught my weight with his hands, stumbling under the impact of struggling, panicked woman. Certainly as surprised to find me in his arms as I was to be there.

Slashing dark eyebrows shot skyward. The full lips parted to offer, “Hello?”

Oh, saints and angels, I was doomed. He was even better-looking up close. Tawny, whiskey-colored eyes. A classic Grecian nose with a clear break on the bridge. Wide, generous lips currently curved into a naughty, tilted line as he stared up at me.

Completely. Doomed.

Focus, I told myself, there’s a mutant rodent in your cupboard, waiting to devour your very soul, then terrorize the townsfolk.

“In my kitchen!” I shouted in his face.

“What?” The man seemed puzzled, and not just by the fact that I seemed to be wrapped around him like some sort of cracked-up spider monkey.

“In. My. KITCHEN!” I yelled, scrabbling to keep my grip
on his shoulders while leaning back far enough to make eye contact. Despite my all-out terror, I couldn’t help but notice the smooth, warm skin or the tingles traveling down my arms, straight to my heart. He smelled … wild. Of leather and hay and deep, green pockets of forest. As my weight shifted backward, his large, warm hands slid around my bottom, cupping my cheeks to keep me balanced against him. “Th-there’s a creature!” I cried. “In my kitchen! Some demon rat sent from hell! It tried to bite my face off!”

The fact that his hands were ever so subtly squeezing my towel-clad ass managed to subdue my mind-numbing terror and replace it with indignant irritation. I didn’t know this man. I certainly hadn’t invited him to grope me, spider-monkey climbing or no. And I had a perfectly lovely boyfriend waiting for me at home, who would not appreciate some workman’s callused hands on my ass.

“You can move your hands now,” I told him, trying to dismount gracefully, but his hands remained cupped under my left cheek.

“Hey, you tackled me!” he protested in a smoky, deeply accented tenor.

I narrowed my eyes. “Move your hand or I’ll mail it back to you by a very slow post.”

“Fine,” he sighed, gently lowering me to my feet. “Let’s get a look at this creature in your kitchen.”

Struggling to keep my towel in place, I led him into my kitchen and tentatively pointed toward the home of the Rodent of Unusual Size. I could hear the beast hissing and growling inside, batting at the closed door with its claws. I was surprised it hadn’t managed to eat its way through yet. But somehow, my would-be rescuer seemed far more interested in looking around, noting the pile of luggage by the door.

“Haven’t had much time to unpack yet, huh?” he asked. I glared at him. He shrugged. “Fine, fine, creature crisis. I’m on it.”

He opened the cupboard door, let out a horrified gasp, and slammed it shut. He grabbed a grimy old spatula I’d left on the counter during my rummaging and slid it through the cupboard handles, trapping the monster inside. He turned on me, his face grave while his amber eyes twinkled. “You’re right. I’m going to have to call in the big guns.”

He disappeared out the door on quick, quiet feet. I stared after him, wondering if I’d just invited help from a complete lunatic, when the early evening breeze filtering in through the back door reminded me I was standing there in just a towel. I scrambled over to my suitcase and threw on a loose peasant skirt and a singlet. I wondered what he meant by “big guns.” Was he calling the police? The National Guard? MI-5?

I was slipping on a pair of knickers under my skirt just as my bare-chested hero came bounding back into the kitchen with a large, lidded pot and a spoon.

“Are you going to cook it?” I gasped, ignoring the bald-faced grin he gave my lower quadrants as my floaty blue skirt fell back into place.

“Well, my uncle Ray favors a good roast possum. He says it tastes like chicken,” he drawled, holding the lid over his thick forearm like a shield as he tapped the spatula out of place. “Personally, I have to wonder if he’s been eating chicken that tastes like ass, but that’s neither here nor there.”

I darted away as he opened the cupboard door. A feral growl echoed through the empty house as he maneuvered the lid down and the pot over the front of the cupboard. He used the wooden spoon to reach over the grumpy animal and nudge the possum into the pot. He slapped the lid over it, turning and giving me a proud grin.

“Thank you.” I sighed. “Really, I don’t know what I would have done—”

The giant rat began thrashing around inside the pot and making the lid dance.

“I want that thing tested for steroids!” I yelped.

“It’s just a baby,” he said, placing one of his ham-sized hands on the lid. “These things burrow in pretty much wherever they want to, doors and walls be damned. A cousin of mine went to tuck his daughter in one night and found one cuddled with her stuffed animals.”

“This is a baby?” I peered down at the dancing pot. “How big do the mothers get?”

He shrugged. “Better question: where is his mama?”

“Oh,” I groaned as he opened the back door, crossed the yard, and gently shook the possum out of the pot and into the tall grass near the trees. I called after him, “Why did you have to say that? I have to sleep here!”

Climbing my back steps, he looked far more relaxed than he should have been after evicting a vicious furred fiend from my kitchen. Shirtless. “I have to sleep here, too. And if it makes you feel better, there’s a good chance that the mama could be sleepin’ under my side of the house,” he told me. “I’m Jed, by the way.”

I giggled, a hysterical edge glinting under the laughter, as he extended his hand toward me. “You’re kidding.”

He arched a sleek sandy eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

I cleared my throat, barely concealing a giggle. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never met a Jed before.”

He chuckled. “I’d imagine not, with that accent and all.”

Now it was my turn to raise the bitch-brow. He of the sultry backwoods drawl was mocking my accent? That was disappointing. Since landing in New York, I’d worked hard to control whatever lilt I’d picked up since moving in with Nana Fee. It wouldn’t do for the locals to know where I was from.

“Your accent,” he said, his forehead creasing. “Boston, right? ‘Pahk the cah in the yahd?’ ”