Dead is the New Black (2 page)

I tried mentally to mesh those concepts. When
my eyes rolled back in my head and my brain began to convulse, I
gave up.

Ray interrupted my seizure with, “Do you know
anything about vampires?”

“I do. My ex-husband was a bloodsucking
bastard.”

Ray sighed. “Steph, if you want to continue
being published, you need to write a sexy vampire story.”

“Vampire stories are stupid,” I snapped,
aghast at the very idea. “I hate them. Besides, vampires aren’t
real. Who believes in that crap?”

“Everyone. Vampires
are
real, Steph,” Ray said patiently. “And vampire
stories sell like hotcakes.”

“Well I’ll never write one,” I vowed. “It’ll
be a cold day in hell when I so much as cross paths with a
vampire.”

As my own words echoed inside my skull, I
blinked, sending my reverie back into the past. I looked around.
I’d parked my car and now sat staring out the windshield at the
snow falling all around me.

How long had I been sitting there? How long
had it been snowing?

Before me, past towering pines and
leather-leafed shrubs, a hundred stone steps led up the hill to an
enormous house. Dr. Van Graf’s mansion. It glared down at me
through the white swirls like a black mood.

I tugged my coat closer around my body as I
stepped out of my car onto the cement drive. A sharp wind bit at my
cheeks, and I shoved my hands into my coat pockets.

“It’ll be a cold
day…”

I shuddered at the memory.

That day had arrived, and it was cold. Very
cold indeed.

Standing at
the bottom of the stone steps, I gazed up at the house.

The architecture of the three-story mansion
had a 1920s feel to it, but its exact style was difficult to
define.

I tilted my head and narrowed one eye. Hm.
Then I narrowed the other eye. Ah, better.

From where I stood, the place looked like the
Winchester Mystery House had collapsed onto a dilapidated English
manor and been rebuilt by nearsighted Neanderthals using the
blueprint for Hogwarts.

Having said that, the place was amazingly not
unattractive, consisting of dark half timbers, turrets, leaded
windows, red brick, and white plaster. Spires and chimneys jutted
up in odd places.

Though trepidation was screaming for me to
turn and run, I began taking the steps one at a time, past a rose
garden—now just sticks and thorns as autumn blew its way toward
winter.

When I reached the massive oak door, I raised
my hand to knock, but before I had a chance, it squeaked open,
revealing a sort of…woman person.

Her skin was pale as milk (but not like whole
milk, thick and creamy; more like nonfat, watery and a little
blue). Her Angelina Jolie lips were stained a congealed ruby, while
her dark hair, parted in the middle, hung straight down her back.
The ankle-length satiny dress she wore was black (what, you were
expecting maybe a yellow-checkered summer pinafore?).

I gaped. I couldn’t help it. I opened my
mouth to speak; she beat me to it.

“You ran-n-ng?” she drawled, totally deadpan,
sort of like Miss Transylvania on barbiturates. My lashes fluttered
and I nearly backed away, and then I stopped myself. Halloween was
next week; maybe she was practicing or something.

I ignored that I had not rung or knocked or
yelled or coughed, and simply said, “Hi.”

Her shiny black eyes studied me.

“I’m Stephanie Scott,” I added quickly. “I
have a nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Van Graf. It’s about the
housekeeper position?”

Woman Person raised her head and nodded, then
literally looked down her aquiline nose at me.

“I…,” she announced in her sonorous voice,
“…am Leech.”

Of course you are
, I
thought. I would have dropped dead on the spot if her name had been
Sally Sunshine or Felicity Happy Pants.

“You may call me…Leech. Der dock-tor is in
der shhh-tudy.” She stepped back, allowing me passage into the
cavernous foyer. Closing the door, she turned to face me. Hands
clasped over her concave stomach, she droned, “He is ex-peckting
you.”

The phrase
He vants to
drink your blood
ran through my head, but I cast it aside as
being silly and immature. I had nothing to fear. This was simply a
job interview. Sure, an interview with the vampire—hmm, that might
make a good book title—but the agency had promised I would be in no
danger. I was letting the rumors, the location, the mansion, and
the Leech get to me. I needed a job. Best to focus on that.

Again, theremin music curled around my
eardrums, and I resolved that if my potential employer
did
show the least sign of being thirsty, I was so out
of there.

As Leech led me through the first floor of
the house, I couldn’t help but notice how normal it looked. Yeah,
it was a little shadowy, a little dusty, the windows needed
washing, and the carpets could use a good vacuuming. Perhaps the
slightly unkempt state of the place was the reason the old doctor
needed a new-and-improved housekeeper?

Oil paintings, the size of which approached
the square footage of Delaware, and a variety of faded, threadbare
medieval tapestries adorned the walls. Palm trees and ferns set in
gigantic ceramic pots reached for the high-beamed ceiling, giving
the room an unexpectedly airy, welcoming feeling—unlike my guide
who gave me the impression I had interrupted her at feeding
time.

We turned a corner into a long, long (taking
in a mental deep breath), lon-n-n-ng hallway lined with gilt-framed
oils—ancestral portraits, I assumed. At the end of the wide gallery
stood an ornately carved mahogany door.

Without facing me, Leech lowered her head,
knocked three times, and slowly pronounced, “
She
is here, Herr Dock-tor.”

What, not Herr
Master?

I swallowed a nervous laugh as I imagined an
elderly bespectacled physician with a magnificent silvery coif.

Though no response was forthcoming from the
study, Leech turned to me. “Vait here.”

I muttered a thank-you to her narrow back as
she proceeded to retrace her steps down the corridor, then vanished
around the corner. I didn’t hear the flap of bat wings, so I assume
she didn’t morph into a creature of the night once she disappeared
from view.

“I hope she didn’t scare you.”

While I’d been musing over Leech’s true
nature—
Homo sapiens
vs.
Chiroptera
—
the door had silently
opened.

I turned to face my prospective employer.

The sardonic grin left my lips.

The image of an old guy with white hair
faded.

The blood in my heart ceased to pump.

The breath in my lungs stilled.

I stared up into his eyes.

He stared down into mine.

Words would not form. Speech would not come.
If I so much as tried to talk, I knew I would have simply babble.
The drool alone would have been prohibitive.

I’d been about to answer my potential
employer’s question with a light
It takes a lot
more than Morticia Addams to scare…
uh, what was my name
again?

Because when our eyes met…I…I…ah, hell, I
don’t remember. I only know that whatever I had expected him to
look like, it sure wasn’t this.

Jonathan Van Graf looked to be my age, give
or take a few hundred years. He was tall, many inches taller than
I, and good-looking in an action hero sort of way, especially with
that dark hair, those blue eyes, and them damn sexy gold-rimmed
glasses. Even in tailored gray slacks, a thin black belt, and white
fitted shirt, it was easy to see his body was—all right, I confess
yummy
is the word that comes to mind, and
let me tell you, sister, I haven’t had a good meal in a long,
long
time.

Trying to regain control of my senses, I
stumbled, “Leech? Me? Scare? No. No, but, like, well…you…I…we…who,
she? I mean she, or you, rather, um, as for me, uh, I…I…I…”

I rambled, sounding as though I’d just
stepped off the train from Witless Junction and all I had in my
suitcase were pronouns.

As I stood there, apparently incapable of
constructing a coherent sentence, he grinned as though he had a
secret. A wonderful, really funny secret.

There was surely a throne somewhere on Mount
Olympus missing a god.

Either unaware of or unfazed by my reaction
to him, the hunky doctor chuckled. “Leech frightens many people,
but I promise she’s harmless.” Lifting his hand, he adjusted is
glasses.

Sigh
.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the Superman/Clark
Kent thing, but broad-shouldered myopic heartthrobs turn my tummy
all mushy. Okay, okay, full disclosure: Not exactly my tummy. A
little farther south, if you get my meaning.

I offered my hand in greeting, but more, to
have something to hang on to if my knees buckled. “I’m Stephanie
Scott. Very nice to meet you, Dr. Van Graf. I appreciate the
opportunity to interview for this job.”

His fingers wrapped around mine, warm,
strong. He looked at me with eyes so utterly blue, they were nearly
translucent; I was transfixed.

My lids drifted down.

I felt wobbly.

Cellulite apparently has the tensile strength
of wet Kleenex because my thighs seemed to be turning to jelly a
tad short on pectin.

I realize that’s too many metaphors, but my
brain was incapable at the moment of editing my remarks. Confused
as to what was going on, I sucked in enough air to fill the
Hindenburg and then shook my head to try and put all the marbles
back where they belonged.

Would the damn metaphors
never end?

I shook my head again.

He opened the door wider—no doubt to
accommodate what my mother often referred to as my
good-breeding-stock
hips.

Van Graf smiled. “Step into my office, won’t
you?”
Said the spider to the fly.

Afraid to meet his eyes again, I inched past
him into the study. He hadn’t yet released my hand. My heart began
to flutter.

“Please, have a seat.” He relaxed his grip,
allowing me to retake possession of my hand.

“Thank you, Dr. Van Graf.”

When he indicated the leather wing chair next
to his desk, I sat.

“Please, not so formal.” He dropped into his
desk chair. “In my practice, patients call me Dr. Van Graf. To my
students at the university, I’m usually Professor Van Graf. At home
here in Moonrise Manor, it’s just Doc.” He leaned forward, meeting
my eyes with his steady gaze. “Close friends and intimates simply
call me Jon.”

I blinked at him as my brain screamed,
Too many options, too many options!

I wasn’t his patient, or a student, or his
BFF, so I supposed this was his roundabout way of letting me know I
would be considered staff, and therefore
Doc
would do? None of his suggestions fit the bill.
The only thing I was interested in calling him right now was
Full-time Employer
.

As the silence between us lengthened, he
picked up what was obviously a copy of my resume. “Well, then.
Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

Yes. Yes we shall. Whatever he wanted to get
down to, we should get to it right now. The nitty-gritty of my
visit, the interview portion of our meeting was about to begin.

Hope blossomed in my heart like the first
rose of spring. I can do this. I can get this job.

Sitting there, facing the handsome,
sexy-as-hell, wealthy doctor, inside my head I heard those three
words every woman longs to hear:
You are
hired
. Followed by:
When can you
start
? The frosting on the employment cake being:
I want to pay you a lot of money
.

Instead, he said, “Before we begin…”

I felt my burgeoning rose freeze in its
tracks.

“I want to make sure the agency informed you
that I am a Vampire.”

The petals of my rose shivered and shrank,
turned moldy, and fell off.

“Yes.” My reply was matter-of-fact. “They
were absolutely clear about that.”

He smiled as he adjusted his glasses. “Though
I always explain to new acquaintances that I am as human as anyone
and they have nothing to fear from me, some people are skeptical as
to my assurances.”

“Not me,” I lied. Hell, at this point, I’d
take a job at
Kill All the Dolphins
or
Mothers Against Pristine Forests
if it
would get me a steady paycheck and benefits.

I must have had that fight-or-flight look in
my eyes (I learned a long time ago I can’t play poker; my
expression gives me away every time) because he raised his hands,
palms toward me like a mime trapped behind an invisible wall. His
impromptu gesture gave me a clear view of his ring finger, which
was devoid of a band of gold.

Again my heart fluttered.
Handsome…sexy-as-hell…rich…doctor…
available
. All my mother’s
husband-material-for-Stephanie dreams fulfilled in one hot package.
So to speak.

“I apologize,” he said. “I can see the
Vampire thing really does bother you. And then there’s Leech. She
is a bit—”

“Yes,” I rushed, willing away his potent
effect on me. “She is.” I threw in a short laugh to convince him I
was in on the joke. Hell, maybe I
could
give Meryl Streep a run for her money.

Human/Vampire/Doctor Van Graf/Professor Van
Graf/Doc/Jon shrugged. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her,” he
insisted, “but Leech has a great sense of humor. Very droll.”
Raising his brows, he nodded emphatically. “She’s a riot at a
party.”

Uh-huh. A lynch
party.

“Let me just cut to the chase,” he said,
setting my resume aside. “I don’t know how much the agency told
you, but Leech has been my
housekeeper-slash-secretary-slash-factotum for years, but she has
to leave…”