La Vida Vampire

“I don’t need a guy at all. Really. I’m busy every night.”


“But I’d like to help you find someone special.”

Janie looked so crestfallen, I took pity. “Tell you what. If I decide I have the time and interest in dating, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

“Can’t ask for more than that, Janie,” Mick said jovially. “And, Cesca, since you’ll need to sleep in, I’ll hand deliver the incident report and the tourist list when the company office opens in the morning.”

“Sure, Mick, thanks,” I said, suppressing a chuckle at his eagerness to repay me for getting him out of a double date. He went so far as to pat my shoulder as we left Scarlett’s, and since Mick never touches me, the gesture was huge—like kissing my feet in public.

We split up on Cordova, Mick and Janie heading north to Mick’s car, me heading south for Maggie’s condo on Cathedral Place. I took all of five steps before the impact of what just happened hit me. No, not my near escape with a fixup.

Mind reading. Telepathy.

Holy guacamole, I’d read minds tonight. Not just those of the overexcited tourists. I’d seen men’s names form in Janie’s thoughts and read Mick’s gratitude to be off the double dating hook. Not just his face, his mind. Heard the thoughts in his own voice tone and pattern.

My psychic abilities were like water in a sieve this close to the dark of the moon. For over two hundred years it had been that way. Could they return to normal after all this time?

Nah, probably not. Not for good, anyway. Best not to wish for more out of my afterlife when I already had so much.





THREE


Among other provisions, the Vampire Protection Act required me to live within five miles of my sponsor. I could’ve rented an apartment, but they aren’t as easy to find as one might think. Then there’s the whole vampire-daytime-resting-place protection issue, and, well, the quickest fix to my unique housing need was to move into Maggie’s penthouse guest room. Maggie lives in the old First National Bank of St. Augustine building, circa 1928, right in the heart of the colonial part of the city. The building, now housing another bank and various professional offices on the lower floors, is across the street from the Plaza de la Constitución. The plaza is a public park opposite the Bridge of Lions, and it ’s been a gathering place virtually since the city was founded in 1565.

The city fathers never held with skyscrapers, so the whole bank building is only six floors high and just the top two were converted to condos—three of them on the fifth floor. Maggie has the entire sixth floor, a modernized loft -esque space with amazing views of the bay, the lighthouse, the old fort, and even snatches of St. George Street and the city gates. Maybe it was the result of my confrontations with Stony and the newlyweds—and the blind date scare with Janie—but I was drained. My nice, normal afterlife had taken hits of excitement I didn’t like. I would’ve loved to crawl into bed and watch a movie marathon, but I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to keep up with my online classes. Then again, studying would put me squarely back in my routine, and that was a good thing.

Design was my class del día, or del giorno as my papa would’ve said. Interior design tonight, exterior design tomorrow. Specifically, matching landscape plans with architectural styles. Neither was a college-level course. I couldn’t enroll in college until I finished my GED. I was on track to do that, but in the meantime I indulged my HGTV -discovered love of architecture and design by taking the lecture and project classes offered through continuing ed.

In addition to the old Victorian, Maggie was also restoring the carriage house cum cottage on the back -of-the-house grounds for me. She wanted me to decorate my own space, and I would, but Victorian and other ornate styles weren’t my thing—

not like they were Maggie’s. Now, give me Frank Lloyd Wright, Art Deco, Art Moderne, or midcentury modern, and I ’m drooling. Lost in lines and curves and colors.

I was two blocks from the condo, thinking about the Craftsman -style cabinet I was designing for class, when I heard muffled footsteps behind me. Stony? Didn’t smell like him, no menace in the air. The hinky honeymooners? No pheromones or fresh blood stench.

I stood still, and an essence wafted around me. Faint in the fingers of the fog, but there. It wasn’t a fragrance. It was almost a touch. A ghostly touch, yet not a ghost. It could be only an overpowering memory. Or it might be what—or rather who—sprang to mind.

Shape-shifter. Specifically, Triton. My friend from the time of our childhoods until the day I insisted he leave town to escape the vampires.

Shifters had been hunted to extinction, logic argued.