“Backup how?”
He squeezed my hand. “I’ll check out Jo-Jo’s story and get the scoop on Vlad. I’ll also ask the Atlanta VPA agent about this immunity to silver. That bugs me.”
“Immunity sounds flat-out impossible. As long as you’re talking with the VPA people, will you ask them to watch for any vampires who might be on the move out of their usual territory?”
“In case this Vlad guy sends a hit man after Jo-Jo?”
I nodded. “Of course, that’s only going to work if all the Atlanta vampires are wearing their GPS implants.”
“Honey, they have to be. The rogue vamps are dead or on the extermination list.”
“Oh, right.” I thought a minute. “Let’s say we help Jo-Jo. Where is he going to stay?”
My front door opened with a whoosh, and Jo-Jo stuck his head in. “I got a motel room when I flew in this morning. I’ll stay there.”
I bit back a grin at his eagerness, and waved him to the chair. “Is your room sunproof?”
“I slept in the bathtub with both the bathroom and room door locked, and the Do Not Disturb sign out.”
“Not the most secure,” Saber said, “but it’ll do. How are you set for money?”
“I have enough to last awhile.”
“Enough for new clothes and a haircut?” I pressed.
Jo-Jo raised a protective hand to his head. “Clothes, yes. The haircut I’ll have to think about.”
“All right, just one more thing I need to ask.” I took a steadying breath, glanced at Saber’s dear face, then at Jo-Jo’s expectant one. “How do you know my formal royal title?”
“I read the articles about you and Saber. About the way you solved the French Bride murder case.”
“My full title wasn’t in the papers.”
“It wasn’t? Then where did I hear—” He scrunched his face in a thoughtful frown, then snapped his fingers. “I know. I overheard Vlad. He was on his usual rant about being controlled by the government.”
“He should take a number on that one,” I said.
“Yeah, well, he threw a tantrum every time there was a news story about you working with Saber. He hates it that you’re, like, a vampire Nancy Drew.”
“But I don’t know Vlad, and he couldn’t know my title.”
“He didn’t. Not until a sneaky, backstabbing vamp told him.”
“This vamp have a name?” Saber asked.
“Marco.”
004
Marco?
My lungs seized. My heartbeat stopped.
Panic squeezed my vision to a pinpoint.
It couldn’t be the same Marco. The one who, with his vampire henchmen, had followed me to the beach at the dark of the moon on July 21, 1800.
As a human, he’d been incensed when I refused his offer of marriage. As a vampire, he kidnapped me and offered me to Normand to turn. As a conniving Judas, he’d incited the townspeople to burn us out.
The villagers had come at dawn to the stone-and-timber house King Normand ruled, but they hadn’t killed me, because they couldn’t find me. The night before, Normand had sealed me in his own coffin in the half basement under the house. This was my punishment for making daylight escapes from his little kingdom, and he’d watched while his human slaves bound the coffin in silver chains. I’d known from a vision that the townspeople were attacking, but I hadn’t warned Normand. I’d wanted to die. Instead, I’d lain in the coffin listening to the pleas and screams of those dying aboveground. I was certain the villagers had turned on Marco, too. That he had died with everyone else. He must have, or he would’ve come back—if not for me, then for Normand’s treasure. Wouldn’t he?
When Maggie had unearthed me and the newspapers ran a story about her “bizarre” discovery, I lived in quiet terror for months that Marco would learn I was out of the box and come back. To keep daymares at bay and to protect Maggie, I’d checked the historical society records for any trace of Marco. Predictably, the city fathers had failed to record mention of local vampires. Searching the church records was a bust, too, so I turned to Dave Corey, my handler at the Vampire Protection Agency. Some vampire hunters had taken fangs to prove kills, rather like taking scalps. There was a set in the VPA records attributed to a Marco of Spanish or Mexican descent, but that’s all Dave had.
I stewed in silence for a long seven months about Marco coming back when I got a clue—and a boyfriend who did more digging through his own official channels. Saber found scores of Marcos registered with the VPA, none of whom seemed remotely connected to me. More vamps named Marco had been slain before the VPA was established. Conclusion? The Marco I had known was either stoking fires in hell or had moved on. Way on. Looking over my shoulder was only holding me back. Still, how curious that the Marco in Atlanta would know my full title. It may be nothing, but probing Jo-Jo for more answers was smarter than sticking my head in a sand dune.
I dragged air into my lungs, and my heart restarted in painful thuds. Vision returned with a rush that left me dizzy. I eyed Jo-Jo, who looked paler than normal. Had I frightened him? He’d sure scared the bejeebers out of me.
“What is Marco’s last name?”
“Uh, I don’t know, Princess. We’re not big on keeping our human surnames, if we ever had them.”
“Does he have a nickname?” Saber asked.
“We call him Marco the Mouth because he’s—pardon me, Your Highness—a kiss-ass and a snitch.”
Which fit the Marco I’d known, but I kept my breathing even. Lots of vampires were double-dealing, backstabbing, powertripping pains in the fang.
“Have you ever heard anyone call this Marco by the name Sánchez or Vega? Or Sánchez y Vega?”
“No, never. In fact, Saber here looks more Latino, and Marco sure doesn’t sound Spanish or Mexican.”
A ray of hope sparkled. “What
does
Marco look like?”
“Pretty much white bread, like me. His skin is a shade darker than mine. Blond, blue eyes, maybe five foot eleven.”
Though the height was off a few inches, it was near enough with shoe lifts, and he could’ve dyed his hair. But Marco’s eyes had been black brown, and he wouldn’t be caught—well, dead—wearing contacts. He’d been sensitive about so much as dirt specks in his eyes, even as a vampire.
The specter from the past vanished, and I sagged into Saber.
“It’s all right, Cesca. It’s not the same vampire.”
“Princess,” Jo-Jo cried, falling to his knees and thunking into the coffee table on the way down. “I could die a thousand deaths that I upset you. What can I do to make amends?”
“You can teach Cesca how to fly,” Saber said.
I elbowed Saber even as Jo-Jo uttered a choked, “The Most Royal Highness doesn’t fly?”
“No, and I don’t want to learn.”
“Sure you do,” Saber insisted. “You bitch about gas prices all the time.”
“Everybody complains about the price of gas.”
“Yep, but you can do something about it. Learn to fly.” He grinned. “Unless you’re afraid of flying.”
“Flying would be fun. It’s the falling that sounds like a downer.”
“Jo-Jo wouldn’t let you fall.”
“Oh, no, Princess,” Jo-Jo said, still on his knees. “You will never come to harm with me.”
“See?” Saber jabbed.
I scowled.
Jo-Jo frowned at each of us in turn, then brightened. “The princess and her consort obviously have much to discuss. How about if I just leave you two alone now?”
“Good idea, Jo-Jo.”
“I’ll go back to the motel then,” Jo-Jo said, backing away in a half bow. “See if they have Comedy Central on cable and research jokes on my laptop.”
“Hold it,” I said, one hand up. “Your laptop computer?”
Jo-Jo looked puzzled. “Yes, Highness.”
“You didn’t bring clothing or blood along, but you flew here with your computer?”
“Well, sure, it’s top-of-the-line. I have to keep my night job until I break into show biz again.”
“But what if you’d dropped it?”
Jo-Jo shrugged. “It’s insured. Is nine too early to come by tomorrow night? You know, to run through my routine for you?”
I shook my head, bewildered by the gadget-mad male mind. “Ten would be better. I work the eight o’clock tour tomorrow.”
“The ghost tour?” he asked in hushed tones. “Wow, do you think I could come?”
Eeeks, no, I thought, but said, “It won’t be sunset yet, and I think that tour is full tomorrow.”
“Oh, then, another time. Good night, my Princess. Good night, royal consort.”
“Wait, Jo-Jo.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“How do you think your Marco knew my full title?”
“He’s not my Marco, but your title is easy to figure out if you just follow the rules of royal titles. Di was called Princess Diana, but her proper title was Diana, Princess of Wales. You don’t have a country to claim, but as the acknowledged daughter of Normand, Vampire King, you become Francesca, Princess of the House of Normand. Of course, that’s in British terms. In French, your title could vary.”
Yeah, like my gas mileage. “Oooo-kay, then.”
“Should I explain that again?”
“No, I’ve got the gist. But one more thing.”
“Yes, Highness?”
“Be extra quiet coming and going, okay? I don’t want Maggie disturbed, and you definitely don’t want to annoy Neil.”
“I’ll be quiet as the dead, Princess.”
He closed the front door with exaggerated care, and I leaned into Saber with a long sigh.
“Feeling better?” he murmured in my hair.
“About Jo-Jo’s Marco, yes, but I need to talk with Maggie about the sponsorship issue.”
“Just remember, whatever she did, it’s because she cares.”
“So do you, but you haven’t lied to me.”
“Well, not any more than you just lied to Jo-Jo about the ghost tour.”
“You’ve got me there.”
“I have you here.”
He pulled me into his lap and inched my thin blouse strap off one shoulder. “You know, that five-year clause
is
in Vampire Protection Act provisions. You didn’t read them, did you?”
His groin hardened against my hip, and my breath hitched. “No, just the brochure. I was too excited to get on with my new afterlife.”
“How about your love life? Want me to amp that up tonight?”
“Mmmmm, is this what consorts are for?”
“Honey, why do you think I doubled my vitamins?”
He kissed me, softly at first, then urgently. I caught fire with explosions of pleasure like the fireworks at the beach.
“Bed . . . room,” I panted in his mouth.
“Why . . . move?” he panted back.
I cupped his erection and whispered what I wanted.
I don’t know which of us hit my California king bed first, but waiting for him to strip me was excruciating. When it was my turn, I kissed and rubbed and teased each inch of skin I exposed. And then he slipped into my body, and I matched his rhythm until we climaxed as one.
I love it when our pheromones mingle at midnight.
Later, when Saber’s breathing evened in sleep, I smiled at the waxing moonlight streaming through the window and enjoyed his warm body until my mental to-do list nagged me out of bed.
I closed the drapes to keep out the light come daytime. Not that sunlight fries me. It doesn’t, and my naturally olive skin provides some protection, too. But UV overexposure will make me break out in lesions similar to what lupus patients experience. I wear super sunblock when I’m outside in the daytime, of course, but I don’t wear it to bed. So for my bedroom I made blackout drapery panels that, when closed, look like surfboards stacked against the wall. I’d also sprung to have wonder windows installed that are both UV reflective and impact resistant.
Yes, Saber had wanted bulletproof windows to protect me from the vigilante vampire hunters, but the expense was astronomical, and they didn’t come with UV protection. Instead, I had a perimeter alarm that was triggered by weight. If the siren sounded, I hit the floor and crawled to the secret escape hatch in the walk-in closet.
I also built an alcove in the living area to house a computer cabinet. It served as my study and office space, and, dressed in my penguin-on-the-beach sleep shirt, that’s where I headed to run a computer search for Marco. Sure, I knew Marco Sánchez was dead. Jo-Jo’s Marco was a whole ’nother creep, a whole ’nother set of fangs. On the other hand, the vamp knew my formal title. Peace of mind is priceless.
I reset the security code and alarm system while the computer booted, then zipped to the Vampire Protection Agency website and their version of America’s Most Wanted. The pages listed the names of vampires who’d been declared Rampants, along with their aliases, descriptions, and notations of “at large” or “terminated.” This list dated back to 1997, when vampires were first designated a protected species, but Saber had accessed older archives for me, and I’d memorized his codes. Okay, it was a little sneaky, but for a good cause.
A click on this button, a password and verification code in that box, and I was in. I typed M-A-R-C-O, waited only seconds, and had ten hits. There, just as I remembered when Saber showed me. The next to last entry on the page read: Marco, surname uncertain, approximately two centuries old, of Spanish descent, black hair, dark brown eyes, five feet eight inches. He’d been killed three years before the VPA was launched.
If the villagers hadn’t killed Marco, and if someone else hadn’t squashed him like a stinkbug before vampire hunters kept good records, then this was the proof I needed. No new daymares for me. Ding-dong, Marco was dead. My lingering doubts lifted. I cruised the VPA site awhile longer, found the five-year rule, and read the history of the Vampire Protection Act and Agency. May as well read up now before I talked with Maggie.
I learned that a crime reporter had stumbled on the scene of a slayer disposing of a vamp body in the early 1990s. With conspiracy theories and Pulitzer visions merrily dancing, he’d broken the sensational story.
Vampires Among Us. Film at eleven.
Disbelief, confusion, and terror summed up the initial human reaction to the news that vampires walked the earth. Governments of the world couldn’t pooh-pooh the story, because a select conclave of vamps flew out of the closet to prove they were real. Course, that’s when the scientists injected themselves into the picture.
With the help of some not-so-scrupulous slayers, vamps were captured for scientific study. One biologist with terminal cancer insisted on being turned so results could be verified. His cancer disappeared, and his DNA proved altered. Conclusion: vampires were Homo sapiens with DNA and other markers just different enough to be classified as a unique species. Enter the ACLU to argue for vamp citizenship rights. Enter the government to tax its new citizens. Enter commerce to create new products. Shock and fear passed, free enterprise and regulations reigned.