My parents started this library and filled it with millions of dollars of books. Three floors. Open in the middle—same as our house—overlooking the main floor. When I wasn’t in school or training to be a Keeper, I was here, losing myself in books. I think I always knew I wanted to be a librarian, but it just took a while to work up the courage to tell my family. Of course, when I did, they acted like I’d told them I wanted to be a porn star or bank robber.
To this day, I don’t regret my choice, but I do regret how my parents were murdered before I could convince them that choosing another path in life didn’t mean I hated them. They died thinking the worst of me, and for that, I don’t think I’ll ever feel closure.
I pull into the parking lot to the side of my library and immediately go for my crossbow. The big one this time. Bertha.
There are four black SUVs in the lot and two parked out front on the busy street at the meters. I know it isn’t Nice, which is why I grab the chocolate-tipped arrow. I make them myself with pure cocoa powder and a flour paste so the tip hardens just enough to penetrate the skin. Vampire skin.
Chocolate is a narcotic for us. Give us enough, and it’ll kill, whereas a small dose has the same effect as alcohol. I’ve yet to sample any since being turned because I’ve been alone with Stella and must be on my guard. Mommy can’t get a chocolate chip cookie buzz until she finds a ninja sitter.
I take my crossbow and exit my Hummer. I might be a librarian, but when it comes to defending my child, I’m a one-woman army. Ready to kick fangs or asses. The ill-fitting, disheveled clothes I wear—below-the-knee skirts, moth-eaten sweaters, and granny glasses—are merely a disguise. Today I have on a wrinkled white blouse, plain tan pants, and a black cardigan that’s all stretched out. People see me and think I couldn’t harm a fly or fight my way out of a paper bag. All part of my Keeper upbringing. Unfortunately, my natural clumsiness is genuine, and so is my lack of love for violence. I can fight, and fight well. It’s just not something that comes naturally or that I enjoy. Even when I was Nice’s prisoner, fear always held me back. And he knew just how to use it to keep me tethered to his side, reading bad poetry, helping him shop online for ruffled shirts, telling him how much I admired his wiry body and long black locks.
The man is a monster.
At least I wasn’t mistreated sexually. Mr. Nice has a rule about not sleeping with humans (apparently they’re too fragile for his bedroom games), but he kept Stella from me. Those are years lost with my daughter, and I’ll never get them back. For that, he’ll pay.
How?
I’m not sure yet, but it’s coming. His day of reckoning for separating me from Michael and then my child, for driving Michael to become a cold-hearted vampire, and for turning me is coming. I love to read, and I’ve always believed a story is only as good as the bad guy. But in real life? The only good bad guy is a dead bad guy. This librarian is coming for you, Nice.
Now for this guy!
Bertha in hand, I pull on the front door of my library. My eyes meet his, and my heart starts hammering against my rib cage, like it’s calling out to him in longing. The sensation jars me and, in some way, shames me. I know he can hear it. Just like I can hear the lack of beating inside his chest. He couldn’t care less about seeing me. He feels nothing.
“What do you want, Michael?” I growl, keeping my weapon pointed at the ground. I know his guards are all around us, waiting to pounce.
“What do I want?” He points to his broad chest, and I try not to notice how good his tall, lean, muscular frame looks in his tailored black suit. Michael Vanderhorst was born over four hundred years ago, but if you saw him walking down the street today, you’d wonder where the Armani shoot was. And I’m not talking runway. I’m talking Christmastime cologne commercial. You know, the ripped, oiled-down guy with deep olive skin in a tight white Speedo, diving into a pristine turquoise ocean. Yeah. That Armani.
Despite being a vampire, Michael is everything hard and male and seductive, with a face that never ages. One look into those dark eyes, and you’re lost forever.
“Yes,” I repeat, “what do you want?”
“You summoned me,” he says in that deep, authoritative voice that doesn’t fit his youthful appearance. It was the one thing that first tipped me off about him not being human. No twenty-year-old I’ve ever met has a voice that can make my toes tingle.
I raise my crossbow and point it at his groin.
“What are you doing?” he growls with those sexy lips.
“I know you have at least a dozen guards surrounding me. Consider it my insurance.”
Michael unfolds his arms. “Mir-librarian-woman, you sent five of my men home in a shoebox. I hardly think you are the one at risk.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?” And why is he calling me Mir-librarian-woman?
His dark eyes narrow in puzzlement. “Please tell me it was you who summoned me.”
I blink, catching on to the situation.
Someone pretending to be me asked him to come here.
I hear a click somewhere in the room. Oh crap!
About the AuthorMimi lives with her Latin lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and their three spunky dragons (really, just very tiny dogs with big attitudes) Snowy, Mini, and Mack, in the vampire-unfriendly state of Arizona.
She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.
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