Page 3 of Night of the Vampire
Lizzy
All Hallows Eve, New Orleans
"Are you sure, Lizzy?"
I nodded at Mike. "Really, it's okay. Go on home. I'll close up."
"Cool, thanks." He was already grabbing his coat from under the counter.
That was just one of the things I liked about having him for an assistant. He didn't insist on asking more than the necessary amount of questions, he didn't talk my ear off, and he seemed to sense when I just needed a minute.
"Make sure and lock up behind me," he told me as he headed toward the door.
"I will." With a wave, I sent him on his way, eying the dark sky before I pulled the door shut behind him and locked up. There wasn't a star to be seen.
Great.
It was going to rain.
"Perfect." I heard the first drops patter the windows as I made my way back to the counter and prayed the old roof would hang in there until spring. God, I hated hurricane season, which, from what I remembered and what my local customers kept telling me, should have been over by now.
Personally though, I thought Mother Earth had just had enough, and was now trying to get rid of her human parasites.
And, honestly, I can't say that I blamed her.
Rolling my head on my shoulders, I took a deep breath and let the pressures of the day fade away. It had been a busy week. As I walked around straightening the shelves and displays, I wondered if it was always this crazy leading up to Halloween, or if this was just an especially good season. Of course, I did own a business called Ancient Magicks, which was located right smack in the middle of the French Quarter in New Orleans. So, I suppose it was to be expected. Tourists came here for two reasons: to learn about the history of the city during the day—hitting the ghost and cemetery tours—and afterwards, once they had one—or five—Hurricanes diluting their blood stream and their common sense, they liked to dip their toes into the world of voodoo the city was infamous for.
I tilted my head at the human skull replica I'd just set upright on the shelf beside the basket of gris-gris bags. "Spooky, right?" I asked him.
As usual, he didn't respond.
With a shrug, I continued on, dusting the shelves and making sure everything was ready to open tomorrow, reminding my aching back that having an "authentic" voodoo shop in the middle of this madness just made good sense. I myself, however, knew absolutely nothing about voodoo or witchcraft. But what I did know was business, thanks to having the good sense to get a degree in the subject. Just in case my dream life burned down around me.
Which is exactly what had happened two years ago. And four weeks ago, I'd fled my home in New York City with little more than what I could fit in the rental car and my old dog, Sir Wigglebutt.
Or Wiggles, for short.
Finding nineteen-year-old Mike, with his dark and gloomy—yet highly attractive in a weird sort of way—rock star goth look had just been pure luck for me. Tourists wandered into my shop out of curiosity, and a good number of them returned to show off their collection of plastic beads to my assistant, hoping he'd want to see the goods that had earned them those beads. However, for reasons unbeknownst to me, Mike never took anyone up on their offer. At least, not as far as I knew. And I wasn't about to pry into his personal life to ask.
Pretty sure he was grateful for that.
And that reminded me...I had a bag of gaudy beads in the back I wanted to add to the display of oils and incense in the front window. It needed some color.
I was in the back giving Wiggles some love, who'd just woken up from his fifth nap today, when I heard the bell above the door. For a moment, I froze. I was pretty damn certain I'd locked the door. No, I specifically remembered locking it after Mike left, and he was the only other person with a key. Maybe he'd forgotten something?
Giving my sweet pup one last scratch on his old head, I assured him we'd be heading home soon. Something I did every night even though he couldn't hear a word I said anymore. Then I grabbed the bag of beads off the shelf and headed back to the front to see what Mike needed.
As I started lifting the curtain that separated the back room from the front of the store, I heard a low growl behind me and glanced back at Wiggles with a frown. He never growled at Mike. He loved Mike. Although his eyesight was going, too, so there was no telling what that had been about. Ducking through the curtain, I called out, "Mike? Hurry up and get out of here. Gotta close up before the dead start rising—"
Grinning at my own joke, I looked up...and stopped dead in my tracks. Whatever else I'd been about to say dying a swift death on my tongue.
A man stood just inside the door, looking around my store with an amused expression on his face. At first glance, he wasn't anything special to look at. About five foot eleven if the ruler on the door frame was correct, of average build, with pale skin, short, sandy brown hair and a classically handsome face that hadn't seen a razor in a day or so. As I ran my eyes over his suspiciously dry clothes, I noticed he had what I would consider a bit of a European look to him. His dark jeans were fitted to his lean, muscular legs, and he wore a hip-length black sweater with a big collar open over a nondescript, dark green shirt. All he needed was a pair of glasses with thick frames to complete the look he seemed to be going for.
However, despite his nerdy-boy attire, the man standing in my shop was most definitely not a boy. And the look in his black eyes, once they made their way back up to my face, was not in the least bit nerdy.
More like predatory.
My lungs began to ache from lack of air, and I sucked in a quick breath through my nose.
