The Vampire's Protector

“This is insane. He’s not a dead guy. He just happens to look like Paganini.” She was in Italy. All the guys were darkly handsome, right?

But she had to be sure. She wasn’t going to let this mission get any more messed up than it already was.

Shifting into Reverse, she backed the car down the road. When she paralleled the man, he paused and cautiously stepped back from the car as if it were a vicious bull staring him down. After a few moments of consideration, he leaned forward and peered through the window at her.

She rolled down the window. Grabbing her cell phone and clicking on one of the pictures, she then held it out, to compare images side by side.

“Ah shit. It’s him.”

* * *

Nicolo marveled as the dark glass window in the moving carriage slid downward to allow the driver to speak to him. A female driving a carriage without horses? Such a wonder the world had come to. He could not even be frightened at the strange prospect of allowing a woman such leeway as to drive about unescorted.

She held a small device out toward him and asked, “Is this you?”

What? Him? He leaned forward and saw there was a small painting on the device. Or rather it looked like a sketch. Of him. He’d seen that sketch. Sir Edwin Henry Landseer had done it during a concert when Nicolo had performed at the Royal Opera House in London.

“Yes, me,” he said in French because she had used that language. He spoke Italian and French.

“You are Nicolo Paganini?”

“But of course.” He leaned closer to her, but wasn’t sure about touching the carriage. It gleamed silver. Not a bit of wood to its construction. “How do you know this? What magics do you practice to identify me as such? And what witchery is contained in that box you show me?”

“It’s called the internet and this is a cell phone,” she said with a wave of the object before pulling it back inside.

He understood neither of those words.

She opened the carriage door and got out. The woman was petite and...dressed most strangely. Yet, Nicolo had seen a few women since wandering out from the cemetery. All wore trousers such as a man and close-fitting shirts with sleeves short enough to reveal more than enough arm, and on some, the necklines were so low as to show ample bosom. It had startled him so much he’d initially walked directly into a street lamp. And then a few feminine giggles had reassured him that the modern-day women still possessed a wicked tease comparable to those from his time where their wardrobe was concerned.

“Okay, Monsieur Paganini,” she said. With a shake of her head to spill the untidy long blond locks over one shoulder, she hooked her thumbs at the back of her slender-fitted trousers that hung low, exposing a slice of skin above the waistband, and rocked back and forth a few times on some odd violet shoes. “So uh...this next question is a doozy.”

“Doo-zee. I do not understand that word.”

“It means it’s going to set you off your feet real good.”

He stared down at the bespoke leather shoes he’d been buried in. Treasures to him. For to find a comfortable shoe that had fit his large feet? Not so easy. “Very well then.” He crossed his arms and prepared for the remarkable question to set him off his oversized feet. “Serve me your best.”

Because really? After climbing up from one’s grave, it couldn’t get much worse. Or was that better? He hadn’t yet decided if he should be pleased or worried about his new alive status. He’d been buried for a long time. The world had changed. And he was in a daze from it all.

“Did you just crawl out of a tomb?”

Nicolo’s jaw dropped open. And then he snapped it shut. There was only one explanation to her having such information. “Are you a witch? I know witches exist. How did you portend such a fact?”

“Just answer me. I was on my way to the Parma cemetery to see if you were still safely buried. Uh, but I guess you’re not.”

“I am not. For reasons beyond my knowledge, I have been summoned from death.” He brushed his fingers over the velvet coat he’d been buried in. His son had style, indeed. Though it fit tightly across the shoulders. When being resurrected, he’d gained some muscle. It made the coat cumbersome. “Does everyone know about this strange occurrence of my resurrection?”

“No, just me. And I’d like to keep it that way. You’d better get in the car. We have some things to talk about.”

“Get. In?” He stretched his gaze along the carriage. There were seats for others inside the compact conveyance, but— “No, I am perfectly fine standing outside on this smooth pavement. Such wicked alchemy you’ve concocted to make this vehicle travel without a horse is not something in which I wish to partake. I have avoided the devil’s work all my life. I shall not soon subscribe to such folly in my afterlife. As it is.”

“Your afterlife is because of me, I’m afraid.”

“How so? Did you summon me from the grave? You are a witch!”

She held up both hands, one of which still held the mysterious device containing his image. “Chill, Paganini.”

“I am rather warm in this attire. These are my funeral raiments. I’ve seen people wearing so much less. And you in your odd trousers and shoes. What has become of the gowns the women once wore? Your attire is freakishly masculine.”

She bristled at that statement, but then set back her shoulders, proudly. “I may be a freak, but the clothes are common for women nowadays. The world has changed a lot in a hundred and seventy-five years.”

“One hundred and...” He gaped. Truly, it was well beyond the 1920s in which Mary Grace had been buried.

“Like I said, we need to talk. I suppose I can’t interest you in climbing back into the coffin and letting me bury you again?”

“Are you— That is perfectly ghastly! You are worse than a witch, you—”

“Yes, yes. But since you know witches exist and suspect I am one, I need to set you straight right from the start. Get a load of this.”

She grinned widely, and Nicolo watched her upper incisors descend. They were pointed and sharp and—mercy, he knew what she was. He hated that he had such knowledge of the paranormal creatures that existed in this world. But he did because he’d had far too many conversations with the devil Himself.

And he knew what this woman was. “Vampire?”

She nodded and grinned. Surely the world must be overrun with her sort? For the very first person he should converse with would be a blood-drinking vampire? Perhaps crawling back into his coffin would not be such a terrible idea after all.

No. He was alive. And he wanted to remain that way.

“No,” he said defiantly. “I will not get into that conveyance with you today. Good day, vampire.”

And he strode off down the smoothly paved road, not sure where he was headed, but dearly hoping that his path landed him at the nearest tavern with a kindly serving wench who would take pity on his empty pockets and allow him a drink. Or two. Or many. Drunk seemed to be the only way to handle the day’s events.

Quickening his pace, he tried to ignore the vehicle rolling backward toward him. He had walked a great distance from the cemetery, but he was not tired nor were his muscles taxed. In fact, he felt good. Remarkably good. He couldn’t remember a time during his first life (that’s what he was calling it; how else to term it?) when he’d felt so utterly alive. So vital. So strong.

And he wanted to keep this strength. And figure it out.

The carriage stopped and out jumped the woman. She marched toward him. Petite and very pretty, despite her messy blond hair that seemed to fall in twists down to her elbows, and the terrible clothing that made her resemble a boy. He was surprised at her insistence. And even more surprised when she grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

“Take your hands off the coat,” he insisted. “It is fine velvet.”

“Yeah, yeah, velvet is cheap nowadays, buddy. Get over it. So the fact I’m a vampire didn’t freak you?”

“Freak me? You mean, you expected me to run screaming from you? I know of your sort, blood drinker. Have never met one, but I do have knowledge of the occult.”

“We call it the paranormal. Vamps, witches, werewolves, demons. All that jazz.”

“I’m not sure what creature a jazz is, but I am aware of the others you listed. Demons.” Nicolo stifled a shudder.

“You and me both.” She echoed his shudder.

“But I’ve always thought vampires—” He glanced skyward where the sun beamed brightly. “Aren’t you supposed to lurk in the shadows?”

“We vamps can do sunlight for a bit. But we still keep our heads down. But, as it probably was in your time, most humans are not aware of us.”

“So you are still not a large part of the population?”

“Large enough. But smart enough to walk in the shadows.”

“Yes, shadow creatures. So you are vampire.” So opposite of what he’d expected. Completely un-creature-like, this woman of the enticing blond hair and blue eyes. Save for those vicious fangs. Best not to rile the creature. He could play nice to protect his ass if need be. “I don’t think you should bite me. My blood may be...off.”

“Off?”

“I did just rise from the grave.”

“Right. Don’t worry, buddy. I’m not going to sink in my fangs. You’re a job.”

“A job—”

“So tell me how you’re feeling after a climb out of the grave? I should probably keep an eye on you. For, uh...possible decomposition.”

“Decomposition?”

“Well, yeah.” She gestured her hands through the air in exclamation and blurted out, “You could be a zombie.”

“A—what? I am not familiar with that term, vampire. What year is it, by the by?”

“2016. So you could be a zombie.” She pressed the tiny box a few times, then held it before him to display yet another painting. “Because zombies are dead things that have risen from the grave.”

The image was of a person. Maybe. Whatever it had been, it was decayed and—flesh was falling off its face and it oozed gore.

Nicolo flinched and made a disgusted face. “That is not me.”

“Probably not. Zombies are usually mindless and gross. They have limbs falling off and look like they just rose from the grave. They also eat brains. You’re...hot. So not zombie-like.”

Again she did something with the tiny device, then turned it toward him. “Here’s the mirror app. Take a look.”

He bent to study the reflection in the silvered surface of the device. Indeed, it had changed from showing a painting to a mirror. Marvelous. And diabolical. And yet...

“That is...me? I look...well.” He tapped his teeth again. They were white and not wobbling in their sockets. “Such a marvel.” His nose, long and with a bend at the middle looked like the same nose. His eyes were gray and clear. His hair seemed longer. As did his face look—well, healthier. Such a handsome fellow, eh?

Realizing he was mooning over himself, Nicolo cleared his throat and stood upright. “Did you say it was you who facilitated my rising from the grave?”

“Inadvertently.”

He quirked a brow.

“When I was inspecting my find, the bow slipped across the violin strings. Played a few notes. But I didn’t do it on purpose. It was accidental.”

“You have the black violin?” Nicolo’s heart thumped once, and he winced at the aching remembrance of that vile instrument.

“I do.”

Blowing out a heavy breath, he clutched his hair in frustration. “I asked Achille to destroy that monstrosity! Oh, this is most awful.” He started to stride away, then turned and paced the pavement back up to her. “Do you know what this means?” He slapped a hand over his chest. “That explains why I feel so alive and strong. I feel as though I could run round the world and not pause to catch my breath. And my teeth.” He tapped the perfect teeth in his mouth.

“Oh wow.” She peered at his teeth. “I read you had lost all your teeth before your death.”

“I did lose them! As well as my voice. I could not speak above a whisper for years before my death. And now it is as if I have transformed into a new version of myself when I climbed up out of that coffin. And you are the reason for it!”

He clutched her about the neck and squeezed. She struggled and then kicked and landed her foot successfully at his hip, just missing his groin. Nicolo dropped the vampire and with a shout, stumbled backward into a swath of lush tall grass.

“We women have learned a thing or two about defense since your time,” she said, standing over him. “Let that be a warning. You’re strong, though.” She rubbed her reddened throat. “Kind of weird for a dead guy.”

“I am not dead,” he managed as he fought to free himself from the long grasses tangled about his shoes.

“No, you’re not. But what are you?”

That was the question, indeed. By all the blessed mercies he prayed that foul brimstone bargain had not been enacted.

“Why did you play the violin?” he asked the vampiress. He had best be cautious for another attack. The next time she could use her fangs.

“I didn’t play it,” she said. “I was supposed to find the violin and bring it to Acquisitions, but I figured I’d better open up the case and check to be sure it was inside first. When I did, it was almost as if the violin had a mind of its own. I’m sure it played those notes by itself.”

That did not surprise him. What he knew of the violin was that it was magic most foul. Diabolical, even.

Truly, had she summoned him by enacting that bedamned brimstone bargain? It didn’t seem possible. The condition had been that he should be the one to play the violin. Only then would he be granted immortality and immeasurable supernatural power.

Did he have immortality now? He certainly felt...something. Stronger, and more powerful. Sure. Yet if not immortal, what, indeed, had he become? And how to fix it?

Did he want to fix it? That may imply his going back to the grave, of dying. Again. He rather liked the air today and the soft, sweet grass beneath his shoes. The sky appeared so clear and bluer than ever he could remember. When had he last admired the sky and simply inhaled the crisp summer air?

No matter, he must not rile this woman overmuch in case she might bite and kill him. Perhaps he could play along with her suggestion to keeping an eye on him. Yes, must needs.

A zombie? If he started to decay he would immediately request a second death, because if he turned into something like that thing displayed on her little box then—absolutely not.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“The black violin? It’s uh...” Her eyes wandered along the side of the fancy silver carriage, then snapped back toward him, though she didn’t meet his gaze directly. “...on its way to the Archives for storage.”

“I don’t understand that.” She was lying to him. Moments earlier she had said she had it. “You played it not too long ago. I felt the music. It moved through my veins. And it called out to me.”

“Really?” She stepped before him, admiration sparkling in her pale blue eyes. He recognized that look. So many had looked upon him as a literal idol when he’d been at his prime performing on the stage. “You’re really him. The Paganini.”

“Indeed.” He set back his shoulders and puffed up his chest. Felt good to step back into the acknowledgment of his talents. He was a maestro, and he would resume that status. Because he knew nothing else.

“What is your name, vampire?”

“Summer Santiago.” She offered her hand, and he assumed she wanted him to shake it.

He gripped it and her skin felt warm. Amazing to feel another being’s warmth and life, to be reassured that he, as well, possessed life. Then a flash burst in his brain, and he received a series of images as if a manic dream chased his reality. The vampire was twenty-eight, had always been a vampire, had a vampire brother named Johnny, and vampire parents. Her job title was a Retriever, and that had something to do with finding lost items or magical objects. An image of her lying beneath a steel carriage such as the one they stood before confused him. She wasn’t hurt. It was a place where she enjoyed being, or rather, working.

Summer pulled her hand from his, and the images flickered out like an extinguished candle. Nicolo chugged out a gasp as the blue sky and sweet grass resumed his senses. “What was that?”

“That was a handshake. I’m pretty sure they did it back in your time. Nineteenth century, right?”

“No, those images. I saw...” He tapped his forehead. “You have a brother who is a vampire, and he sings on the stage alongside his wife. Why does she have horns?”

“How do you know that?”

“It came to me when I held your hand. Is the woman demon?”

“No, Kambriel is vampire, but she wears horns as part of her stage costume. So holding my hand gave you images of my life? That’s some kind of cool power.”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t cold. Your reference to things being hot and cold makes little sense to me.”

“Oh, buddy, it’s slang, and you have so much to learn. But of course I don’t think you’ll have much time to gain all that knowledge.”

“Why?”

“You shouldn’t exist.”

“Is that so? Why? Do you believe I am some unholy beast resurrected from death?”

“Well...are you?”

He hadn’t an answer to that one. And if he thought about it too much, he wouldn’t like the truth. She wanted to put him back in the grave? Never. He was alive, and nothing would change that. And he was strong enough to get one little vampiress off his back.

He shoved her shoulder hard and watched as her body soared through the air a good thirty feet and she landed on the side of the road, tumbling into the grassy ditch.

Nicolo winced. That had to hurt. But he had to protect himself if he wanted to survive this new world.

“So long, vampire Summer. I am off to live my new life.”

Chapter 4

Summer gave the guy a head start. The next town was only a couple kilometers away, and she was in no hurry to slide behind the wheel again for the long drive home. She’d have to take him with her. Couldn’t let some dead guy wander around unsupervised. Especially if he had anything to do with the possibility of Bad Things Happening.

Or even, Bad Things that Had Already Happened.

She sat on the hood of the Audi and slipped on her Ray-Bans. Sunlight beamed over a distant swash of chestnut trees, glittering in white over the leaf canopy. Crickets chirped in the grasses edging the road, and somewhere a cow mooed.

It wasn’t often she heard a cow moo in Paris. She loved these quiet moments out of the city. It served a different sort of adventure. A mental escape. Much as she sought the fast paced, the always moving, the rush and thrill of her job, times like this centered her. Gave her a few moments to appreciate nature. She wasn’t a tree-hugging hippy chick, just a soul who understood she was a part of everything on this planet, as it was a part of her.

So what part of it all had Nicolo Paganini become? He was the furthest thing from a zombie. No body parts falling off. No nasty skin peels or lumbering gait. Hell, the man was good-looking, and she’d noticed the hard muscles beneath the white dress shirt. For some reason he looked fit, beyond what any picture had depicted of his sometimes comically distorted figure in the nineteenth century. According to the history books he’d been tall, gangly and often sickly.

Was it possible he’d been forged differently when rising from the grave? Certainly he must have decayed lying in situ for a hundred and seventy-five years. So he had been renewed. To a marvelous degree. All parts of him were nicely proportioned and muscled. Every bit of him well made.

“But let’s hope he’s not the Beneath-breaking-loose part of the director’s suspicions.”

The musician had seemed innocuous enough. No flashing magic or vicious powers. Though when he’d shoved her away from him, she’d been startled at the force that had landed her far from where she had stood. He had never been that strong in his previous life. No mortal man was, for that matter.

“He is different,” she decided. And that part worried her.

Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed Acquisitions, and the director took her call. “You check out the cemetery?” Ethan Pierce asked.

“I uh, didn’t get that far.”

“I don’t understand. That was part of the mission, Santiago.”

“I found Paganini. Alive. Wandering the roadside.”

The director’s exhale spoke so much more than a curse or a few curt, remanding words.

“I can hardly lure him back to the grave,” she provided. “Unless you need me to do that?” She winced, hoping the answer would not be an affirmative.

“He’s alive. A man from the nineteenth century crawled out of his grave and is now walking the streets of Parma?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure what the protocol is for this. I’ll have to look into it. Does he seem violent, a danger to others?”

“No. Just startled to be in a different time period. It’s like he’s a time traveler flashed forward to the future.”

“Yes, sure. Is he exhibiting any zombie-like tendencies?”

Summer smirked, then winced as she closed her eyes behind the sunglasses. “Define zombie-like.”

“Limbs bluing. Necrosis of the tissue. Parts falling off.”

“Nope. He’s good.”

For now. But she intended to keep a close eye on him for changes. She’d never had to deal with a zombie before, and she did not look forward to starting.

“Keep an eye on him,” the director said. “Do not let him out of your sight. I’ll report back with further instructions.” He clicked off and Summer shoved the phone into her back pocket.

“Keep an eye on him. Sure. No problem.” Not as if she could look away from all that musician numminess, was there?

Twisting at the waist, she could no longer see Paganini’s figure walking along the roadside. He’d put some distance between them. But she’d find him. Shouldn’t be that hard to track a nineteenth-century musician who had just clambered out of his coffin. Had she just thought of him as nummy?

“You need to get laid, Santiago, if the dead guys are starting to look good to you.”

When had she last—? She didn’t even want to think about it.

Paganini had said his blood might be off. Meaning, he probably didn’t know what the heck he was. Either that, or he had been freaked she was a vampire.

Then again, no one ever really wanted to get bitten by a vampire. At least, no one smart.

Thinking of which... Exhaustion clung to her limbs. She needed to drink blood for a burst of renewal until she could steal a few winks for a true refresher.

She hopped off the hood and slid in behind the steering wheel. She suspected Paganini wouldn’t go far because he had to be hungry, too. She had time to find a meal before pursuing the former dead guy.

* * *

The tavern was a welcome respite from the sun’s sweltering heat that had worked up his perspiration during the walk along the black road. Nicolo had removed his coat and folded it over an arm while walking, and now he felt as if he’d walked into a different atmosphere. It was as if a thousand fans blew cool air on him, yet he couldn’t feel the wind of said fans. So refreshing!

No one sat by the long stretch of bar, and the barkeep nodded to him before asking what he wanted.

“Beer?” Nicolo tried. He wasn’t sure what the modern taverns served, but beer had been around for ages. “Have you food, as well?”

“Special is fish-and-chips. Our cook is Irish.” He shrugged and set a glass mug of beer on the bar before Nicolo. “You want that?”

Nicolo nodded. “Yes, please.”

Fish sounded great. But he had no idea what chips were. He would be surprised. The lure of the golden liquid in the glass coaxed him quickly forward. He slid onto a bar stool and tilted back the liquid. Yes, beer. And quite tasty. He downed half in a long swallow.

Looking about, he marveled at the clutter of paintings on the walls. Yet, they weren’t exactly paintings. Done in blacks, grays and whites, they were each framed and depicted people smiling and holding beer mugs. Had they all been composed and painted in this very tavern? Interesting. In the window a sign that said Pull Tabs flashed red light. How was that possible to produce light of such a color with no flames in sight? And overhead, light beamed down from small glass globes. Not in candle form.