La Vida Vampire

La Vida Vampire by Nancy Haddock





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Thanks are due to so many, I may not get them all in this go-round. They start with my editor, Leis Pederson, and the entire Berkley Publishing Group for making my first sale a blast, and to Roberta Brown, agent extraordinaire, for being her fabulous self.

The outstanding men and women of the St. Johns County Sheriff ’s Department answered my questions with their usual professionalism and humor. Any errors and/or embellishments are mine. Justice must be served, but so must fiction.

I deeply appreciate my friends at Starbucks (Store 8484) for the triple shots of caffeine and limitless caring, and my chapter-mates and online group friends for their encouragement and support.

Last, big dancin’-on-the-beach thanks to my critique coaches—Lynne, Jan, Cathy, Julie, Valerie, and Kathie. You made my work better, and you make my life brighter. I appreciate the Light in you all!





ONE


I hurried up St. George Street, wrapping a finely woven shawl and the soft Florida night around me. Fog would shroud the city in a few hours. I felt it creeping in the early March air as surely as the bay waters lapped gently against the seawall. Nostalgia hit me in waves. More than two hundred years ago, I’d happily skipped through these carriage-narrow streets as a rebellious child, then sedately strolled them as a young woman. Faces and voices, laughter and tears of long ago danced through my memory.

Then a man on a silver Vespa zipped by on a cross street, and I snapped out of it. Sheesh, why was I brooding over my lost past when the present was such a kick? Note to self: Knock it off. Being a vampire had some advantages, I admitted as I wove my way past window-shoppers on the pedestrian-only main drag. Near-immortality counted, right? And enhanced senses. Then there was vampire strength and speed —if I bothered to use either one. Since I’d never really taken to being vampy, I’d refused to practice the tricks of the fang brigade. Plus, life was pretty laid back in my hometown of St. Augustine. Why rush?

As for drawbacks to the vampire life, extended daylight savings time could be a bummer if I was in the sun too long. Still, sunlight was a minor issue for me and always had been. Why? Who knows?

I for sure had it better than I did back in the 1800s. Captured because I had The Gift of psychic visions and telepathy, then turned so the big jerk vampire king Normand could control my so-called power, I’d had no choice but to live with vampires and drink from whoever was served. Yuck.

But, hey, I’m a free woman now. I have artificial blood in a bottle, super sunblock, and all-night shopping at Wal-Mart. I’m part day-walker and all night-stalker, especially when my prey is a bargain in a near-empty discount store. If that sounds silly, you try being trapped underground for over two hundred years. Once the stark terror had passed, boredom reigned. Now that I’m out, I want to learn things, do things, see things—in short, make my new lease on afterlife perfectly normal.

I’ll fight to keep it normal, too. I even have a job. Yep, meet the newest certified guide working for Old Coast Ghost Tours. Me, Cesca Marinelli. A vampire telling ghost stories. Is that a kick or what?

My first shift was due to start in fifteen minutes, so I had time for a spot of eavesdropping on my favorite couple. Enhanced senses can be useful, especially since they don’t overwhelm and overload me anymore. I’d honed the skill to filter sounds, smells, heartbeats—all kinds of sensations—and focus in on what I wanted to. Besides, I couldn’t help myself. Watching the Maggie and Neil show was better than watching TV Land on cable.

Too bad I didn’t remember that eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves—even from a block away. The shock and awe of finding me had worn off, but my petite blonde dynamo roommate, Maggie O’Halloran, and Neil Benson, her black-haired, green-eyed sweetie, still forgot I hear like, well, a vampire. Never mind seeing them plain as day at the spot where my tour group was already gathering.

Neil, in blue jeans, deck shoes, and a sweater-shirt the same gray color that salted the hair at his temples, also wore a sour expression.

“She’s Gidget with fangs and an accent,” I overheard him say as I continued strolling up the block. Maggie laughed, facing me but not yet seeing me. Neil may be a little younger than Maggie, but she looked gorgeous in teal cotton pants, a boatneck top, and navy blue tennis shoes. She exuded confidence and the scent of magnolias that I easily picked up amid the myriad scents on the night.

“The accent is barely noticeable, honey,” she said, “and Gidgets are, by definition, short. Cesca’s five eight.”

“Mags, she surfs. You have to admit that’s odd.”