That is, when Kevin left his fellow tourists alone long enough to be amazed instead of annoyed. His cases of equipment thumped and bumped the other tourists until they stayed as far from him as they could get and still hear my ghost stories. He EMF metered me and anyone else who found a cold spot, flashed the camera darn near continuously, and made such a big pain of himself that I half hoped the biting ghost who hangs around the oldest drugstore would nibble him. But, no. The biter ghost must’ve taken a camera case to the kisser and backed off.
An hour and a half later, we had covered about one square mile of town and were back at the waterwheel. There waited Victor Gorman, my Covenant stalker.
Dark hair, black ops outfit, scar running down his right jaw. Eerie light blue eyes. Same old Gorman. His breath reeked of jalape?os, garlic, and cheap cigar, just as it had the first time he’d confronted me. Guess he figures onions would be overkill.
“Hello, Mr. Gorman,” I greeted him pleasantly. “Have you been on vacation?”
Gorman blinked, not expecting my warm welcome. Okay, lukewarm. I smiled sweetly back. His eerily light blue eyes narrowed, crinkling his weathered skin. “What are you up to, vampire?”
His voice was as gravelly as ever, and his personality just as grating. I stuck to my kill-him-with-kindness policy.
“I’m just wrapping up my tour,” I answered him, then turned to my audience to do the closing spiel.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me on the Old Coast Ghost Walk this evening. We appreciate your patronage, and, if you want to turn in an evaluation form, you can get a discount on a future tour.”
“But,” Gorman yelled, “don’t count on takin’ it with the vampire.”
“Why not?” one of the tourists asked.
“ ’Cause you never know when she might get herself kilt.”
“Stupid man. She’s wearing a pirate getup, not a kilt,” I heard an older lady say as she and her husband toddled off. I grinned at the couple, letting Gorman’s comment pass. After all, this is what we did. Gorman threatened, and I ignored him. I didn’t underestimate him, though; I had a feeling he would try my patience tonight.
“You’re Gorman?” Kevin asked, clomping closer. “Ms. Marinelli’s stalker? The one who was shot when you distracted the French Bride killer?”
Gorman straightened, preening as Kevin snapped yet another photo. “I’m the guy.”
“Did you see any ghosts?”
“Huh?”
I didn’t understand what ghosts had to do with the shooting either, but zippity hot damn do-dah, I saw my chance to dump Gorman on Kevin and make a clean getaway.
“It’s a great story,” I gushed. “Mr. Gorman challenged the killer right there in the street. You should let him tell you the whole thing firsthand. Oh, sorry, where are my manners? Mr. Gorman, this is Kevin Miller.”
While the men shook hands and awkwardly talked, I put my lantern away, relocked the cabinet, and edged toward the bay front to slink away.
“Hold it, vampire, I wanna talk to you.”
Rats. Foiled.
I pasted polite on my face and turned. “I can’t imagine what we have to discuss.”
“Just this.” Gorman stalked closer, Kevin on his heels, until the two of them flanked me. “I hear rumors there’s other vampires in town, and I wanna know two things. What’d you have to do with it, and what you gonna do about it?”
“Nothing, nothing, and where did you hear this rumor? I don’t think your source is reliable,” I shot back, hoping to confuse him. It worked. Gorman’s face screwed up in thought. He was not the sharpest stake in the Covenant woodpile.
“Oh, look at the time. Must run,” I said, stepping back to skirt around Kevin.
But Kevin grabbed my wrist, clonking me with a camera case.
“Wait, Ms. Marinelli. Are more vampires really coming here to St. Augustine?”
“You heard the rumor, too?” A mean grin spread over Gorman’s puffy lips, and he grabbed my other arm to trap me between him and Kevin. “Tell me who the scum are, vampire. Where do I find ’em?”
My heart raced, but I didn’t panic. “There’s nothing to tell,” I said calmly, “so, both of you, let me go.”
“Indeed, you blackguards,” a voice roared behind me. “Unhand Her Highness this instant, or face my wrath!”
In a rush of air, a hand brushed my side, and there stood Jo-Jo, brandishing my rubber sword. Ay-yi-yi.
EIGHT
009
Gorman and Kevin released their holds on me out of pure shock, and well they should have, because Jo-Jo was a sight to bemuse. In black leather pants, a white poet’s shirt, and his hair tied back to show the healing wound on his forehead, he looked like a Shakespearean biker dude.
His eyes, though, blazed with dead serious intent. In spite of that outfit, I realized that Jo-Jo could be as potentially dangerous as anyone else, human or vampire.