“Bless whose holy name?” Hugh demanded. “What the hell did I say?”
“Never mind,” Selma sighed. “Come inside before the you-know-what next door hears you.”
That would be me, the you-know-what, the vampire next door.
Vamp senses can be a blessing and a curse, but when I heard the Listers’ back door click shut, I grinned. Okay, so maybe Hugh and Selma wouldn’t warm to us, but, like it or not, Maggie and I were here to stay. Yep, praise HGTV, the restoration of the Victorian home where Maggie had unearthed me almost one year ago was finally finished. Since her property spanned two lots, Maggie had sacrificed side yard space to add a two-car garage and an extra parking pad for my sweet Chevy SSR truck. Otherwise she’d simply restored the house to its original glory. In her “big house,” Maggie had furnished each room with classic period pieces. Tasteful and elegant all the way. In my carriage-house-cum-cottage in the back corner of the property, I’d gone multiple-period mad. British Colonial in my living room. Retro in the kitchen, half bath, and laundry room. Art deco in my master bath, and surf chic in my bedroom, complete with a surfboard ceiling fan.
It sounds like mishmash, but the decor all works. Really. Even the Polynesian-style bar with the carved tikis on my cobblestone front patio. And, though my front patio faces Maggie’s back patio, our very different styles don’t clash. Maybe because there is a nice, lush expanse of grass to aid the transition from my funk to her fabulous.
Any way, to thank the neighbors for putting up with the construction and to celebrate our move, Maggie and I had decided to throw a luau.
Well, our version of one. I mean, you can’t exactly get poi and whole roasting pigs at Publix. Not in St. Augustine, anyway, home of just about the oldest everything.
Including me.
Not that I look much over twenty-five, but then I have the you-know-what, the vampire fountain of youth flowing in my veins. I’m Francesca Melisenda Alejandra Marinelli, aka Princess Vampire, born right here in St. Augustine in 1780, turned a little underdead in 1800, and buried on this very property in 1803. Maggie unearthed me during the early stages of restoring her Victorian house. Now she’s my sponsor and friend.
The Princess Vampire thing? That’s what the St. Augustine Record reporters and other press people insist on calling me when they write articles. I’ve made the front page twice, the last time in March when preternatural Special Investigator Deke (pant) Saber (double pant) and I solved the French Bride murder case. Saber has a few pet names for me, but everyone else calls me Cesca, which rhymes with Fresca, which is what Maggie’s now-official fiancé Neil Benson calls me. Could be worse. Neil could still call me Cesspool, but we made peace a while back—for Maggie’s sake at first, and then because we became surfing buddies.
Deke Saber and I are a whole ’nother kind of buddy.
On the other side of the jasmine hedge, the Listers’ garage door creaked, and an engine started. Good, they were leaving—for the grocery store, according to my vamp hearing. We’d be on the beach by the time they returned. I tossed an armful of dinner trash into the giant plastic cans we’d bought at Ace Hardware. Across the floodlit lawn, Saber stood with a group of men, including two detectives we’d met on the French Bride case. They were absorbed in examining the cache of fireworks we’d soon be hauling to Crescent Beach to shoot. What is it with men and things that go boom?
Whatever. Just peeking at Saber made my insides throw their own sparks. And his physique in that black polo shirt? Mama mia!
Swimmer’s shoulders, tight pecs, titanium abs. The man is a drool fest, so hot he makes my teeth sweat. My vision swam suddenly, but not from lust. Lust didn’t make my skin crawl, either. What the heck?
I pulled my energy back from Saber and paused to center myself. Then I turned in a slow circle, feeling with my vampire senses to find the source of my unease.
There. Twenty paces away, in the corner of the Listers’ yard, something hovered on the other side of the jasmine hedge. Not something. Someone.
Someone who smelled of stale blood.
Ugh, I hate the smell of blood.
Nausea and tension vise-gripped my stomach, and bile threatened to claw up my throat. The Listers, were they in danger? No. I’d just heard them leave. Besides, this blood scent was old. Sour.
So not a complement to the sweet scent of jasmine.