Vampire Man Page 2

  I can understand why Miriam is upset. Deep in her heart, she knows we were meant to be together. As for Vanderhorst, perhaps he will miss having such a fearsome foe.

  “Well, congratulations, Vanderhorst!” I raise the bottle to the sky. “You won. She is your fanged love.”

  “Fanged…love?” Vanderhorst’s voice comes from behind me. “But we banned that book from our home. Your mother prohibited you from even hearing the title. How do you know about it?”

  Fanged Love is a vampire romance series Miriam loves. I pretended to be obsessed with it, too, when I was a vampire. No offense to the authors, two vampire-obsessed women, Mimi Jean Pamfiloff and Kylie Gilmore, but it is a little ridiculous to believe such a treacherous being such as myself would truly be a fan of a mushy love story. Blech! Nonetheless, I had been compelled to tell many lies in order to create the legendary persona of Mr. Nice.

  You see, friends, despite all his faults and darkness, my maker, Narcissismo, taught me one valuable lesson: Vampires fear what they do not understand. So always keep them guessing.

  Vampires are also savages, and if you want to survive in their world, if you want true power, they must tremble in your presence. That requires tall tales of glorious brutality to be circulated for centuries, repeated so many times they become fact.

  For example, most believe I am over a thousand years old and a general from the Byzantine army. Puffery! I am actually of Spanish and Greek descent, only three hundred years old, give or take a few decades. Most also believe I am insane, eccentric, and unpredictable. Also untrue. I am simply evil, conniving, and merciless.

  In any case, the Mr. Nice façade I’ve worked so hard to create is now useless. There is no point in pretending any longer. No more strange accents. No more flamboyant lace and leather outfits. No more terrorizing the vampire world with my obscure threats or unconventional requests. Milk a cat and make me some cheese!

  I take another swig from the bottle, ignoring his question. “Miriam was always meant to be with me, and nothing will change that. Her heart knows you can’t protect her like I can.”

  Like the time she was about to be slaughtered by Michael’s maker, Cluentius Boethius, the evilest vampire ever to live besides me. He was my hero. But I love Miriam, and when I saw she was about to die because Vanderhorst had failed to protect her, it drove me to action. I killed Cluentius and swept her away to safety, vowing to never let her fall into Vanderhorst’s inept, feeble hands again. Vanderhorst eventually found us and got her back. Grrr…

  Vanderhorst steps into the glowing aqua light of the swimming pool, his jaw hanging open. “I knew it. I knew you remembered everything!” He spins in place, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it! All this time you were him! You are still Mr. Nice!”

  I stand from the lounge chair and stare him down, feeling the whiskey run freely through my veins. “That is correct, Daaad. I remember everything before I took your ridiculous cure. I remember how you nearly shat yourself when I used to enter a room. I remember it all, and trust me when I say I will never forget the long nights I have spent in Miriam’s arms these past years.”

  He winces. “Miriam was being your mother. Have you no decency?”

  I flash a sadistic smile. “You, the Executioner, known for his savagery during the Great War, dare to judge me?” He slaughtered thousands of evil vampires, many of them my close friends.

  “What I did was necessary for a better world, for humans and vampires alike. What you’ve done is vile. It’s despicable!”

  “Michael? I heard yelling. What’s going on?” Miriam emerges from the house in her pink sweater and jeans. Her big brown eyes are puffy and red. Her blonde hair is in a messy ponytail.

  “He is a fake.” Vanderhorst points at me. “As I told you a thousand times, woman. He is still Mr. Nice, the very vampire who stole you from me when you were pregnant with our child.”

  For the record, Stella is a half vampire and was born shortly after I saved Miriam from death. But Stella received around-the-clock nannying and security. It was the sort of childhood I wish I’d had. No one protected me when Narcissismo murdered my parents. No one made sure I was fed and safe. I lived like a ship rat, surviving off scraps while tethered to a vicious vampire.

  Ah, but my sweet Miriam and her child were treated like queens. I even changed Miriam into a vampire so she could be strong and always protect herself and Stella no matter what. She was a little miffed about that, but I knew with time she would come to appreciate my gift and see that I did it out of love.

  Of course, Vanderhorst just had to come along and ruin everything with his ridiculous “rehumanization” project. Always have to be the hero, don’t you, Vanderhorst? Miriam took the cure—one drop only—the same day as I and ended up back with him. Blech!

  Luckily for her, though, I am no quitter. After they brought me into their home, I found myself in a unique situation to bond with Miriam in a new way: snuggled close to her bosom while being bottle-fed, bathed with her warm loving hands, and taken for long walks in the stroller. Good times. Even better, my constant care took attention away from Vanderhorst. Ha!

  Miriam’s eyes float to mine, searching for the truth, but I have danced this tango of lies many times. “No, Mom. He’s lying. Dad’s just jealous of this man he calls Mr. Nice, but I don’t remember him. I don’t know who he is.”

  As I’m preparing to pound the final nail in Vanderhorst’s coffin, a beep sounds on my phone. Miriam’s jeans pocket lights up.

  I look down at my cell on the small table beside the lounge chair. The text is from Vanderhorst.

  Huh? I pick it up and read it. The message says, Gotcha! And there’s a sound bite attached. No. No. No! He recorded our conversation just now and sent it to Miriam.

  I glare at him, taking note of the joyful gleam in his eyes. My heart blisters with rage. “How could you?”

  “No.” Vanderhorst steps forward, pressing his chest to mine. “How could you?”

  “I’ll kill you. I’ll shred you to pieces and—”

  “Bring it, human,” he snarls. “Just give me one excuse to remove your head.”

  “Michael, no. Don’t hurt him. It’s not even a fair fight.” Miriam grabs his arm. “Let’s just…get some sleep and discuss this in the morning like civilized people.”

  Vanderhorst backs off, his face red, nostrils flaring. He is upset because Miriam protected me.

  “There. You see? She understands the true complexity of our love,” I say.

  Miriam slowly turns, hate filling her eyes. “Yes. What I felt for you was love. Love for a tiny, helpless baby who needed a family. And I don’t know what you feel for me, but I guarantee it isn’t love.”

  The rage in her soft brown eyes sends a cold shiver down my spine. I watch as she and Vanderhorst enter the house and slam the back door. The gesture feels big, as if they are shutting the door on me forever.

  Is it possible I have miscalculated? Does Miriam truly not care for me?

  No, impossible. The Nice does not make mistakes.

  Then why do I suddenly feel so alone?

  CHAPTER THREE

  After a long and restless night on the lounge chair outside, my sore human body and I have awoken with a new perspective on things.

  All is not lost! World domination is still within my grasp if I play my cards right.

  Regarding the ban on me becoming a vampire again, I can appeal to the king’s senses. In other words, I will blackmail him.

  Little-known fact: “Dad” is the true vampire king, the original Michael Vanderhorst. But five years ago, around the time I took the cure, Michael wished to vacate the throne without destabilizing the vampire kingdom, which had just gone through a dicey coup. He convinced his twin, the reclusive Freddy Vanderhorst, to take his place so that Michael could live a quiet peaceful life with Miriam, Stella, and me.

  Now Freddy sits on the throne, pretending to be Michael, and the entire vampire world believes that Miriam left the king for his kin
der twin brother. The old twin switcharoo! Such a cliché if you ask me, but also my win.

  I will threaten to disclose their little twin secret if they do not turn me, which solves that problem.

  As for Miriam, I have decided the best course of action is to tell her my side of things. No doubt, Vanderhorst has filled her head with lies. When she hears the truth, she will forgive me and see that he is nothing but a weak man, unworthy of her love.

  I jostle the back door and find it unlocked. Miriam must’ve left it open for me so I wouldn’t miss breakfast. She loves cooking for me. Farm-fresh eggs, organic orange juice, whole wheat toast, strawberry protein smoothie, sausage, and my vitamins. She knows I must eat well to fuel my powerful, manly body.

  I walk into the kitchen, noting the dimmed lights. The air lacks the scent of a homecooked meal and coffee. The house is quiet.

  “Miriam? Vanderhorst? Stella?”

  No one answers. Something is off.

  Panicked, I rush to the library, which is situated in a separate wing of the house. Three stories high with a stained-glass dome for a ceiling, it is filled to the brim with thousands of books. This is where Miriam spends most of her time.

  No one? The room is empty. But where could they be?

  Of course! The other library! Miriam’s parents founded a public library downtown. Vanderhorst has been running things while she’s been occupied with me and Stella, but perhaps today is one of her book fairs.

  I will go to her and make my case, but first I must bathe and look presentable. I rush upstairs to my room and stop on the red carpet. My entire room is decorated for a prince. Dark prince.

  There is a note on my bed, and I recognize the handwriting as Vanderhorst’s.

  Dear Mr. Nice,

  You are a monster who has lived up to every despicable word that has been said about you over the centuries.

  We offered you a home and a family. You betrayed us all—the only ones willing to give you a second chance.

  Words cannot express our disappointment. Maybe soon, when you take your last breath, you will comprehend what you have done and what you have given up.

  We will not return until after you are dead and gone. Please water my plants.

  Goodbye,

  Michael

  P.S. Miriam never wishes to speak to you again. She has texted you a video in case you have delusions about it. Stella hopes you die on an iceberg of loneliness.

  I drop the note on the bed. This cannot be. Miriam never wants to speak to me again? Nor Stella? I have been her playmate for longer than I care to admit. Does anyone know how hard it is to dress a Barbie?

  Traitor!

  I pull my phone from my pocket and check my messages. I see something from Miriam.

  I must’ve missed it while passed out. I had way too much whiskey last night for a five-year-old. No, no. I am not actually five. Think of me as a very old soul trapped in a fresh new body that can’t hold its liquor.

  I tap the message and stop it before it plays in its entirety. One look at Miriam’s red face tells me all I need to know. Vanderhorst has told the truth in his letter. He has won. And my family has abandoned me.

  I spend the next several hours in shock, mostly because I do not know how to cook, so I am relegated to eating Cocoa Puffs.

  Do they really expect me to care for myself?

  Soon I will be old and gray and unable to walk. Who will wash my clothes? Do the grocery shopping? Pay the bills? I have plenty of money stashed away, so that is not a concern, but I do not understand how they think I can perform all these menial tasks on my own.

  I’m a vampire! Vampires don’t do chores. They have human slaves or they make weaker vampires do the work in exchange for protection. It has been so for centuries.

  I groan, trying to wrap my head of thick, long, wavy locks around this conundrum. Hmmm… I could still go to the king and threaten to expose his secret, but he has probably been warned already. He might throw me in vampire jail to live out my final months.

  I think and think hard.

  Surely there must be a vampire out there willing to turn me, if not for money, then to spite the king. Not all five hundred eighty-two societies support him.

  “Society” is our term for coven, mostly because vampires hide in plain sight, living among humans, operating businesses or working for companies.

  And in order to have a place to conduct vampire business, each coven officially registers with the human regulatory bodies as some sort of nonprofit, generally one that has the name “society” in it.

  For example, here in Phoenix, we are the Arizona Society of Sunshine Love. Officially, it is a private organization dedicated to driving awareness of the benefits of sunshine. Unofficially, it was some vampire’s idea of a joke. Vampires do not enjoy or benefit from the sun, though we can and do tolerate it all the time. It merely weakens us.

  Another well-known coven is the Cincinnati Historical Society of Original Family Members—a historical preservation club. Also a little vampire humor, since vampires are preserved history.

  My most recent coven was founded by yours truly, the New Orleans Spicy Gumbo Society. I am quite proud of the name since we refer to humans from that region as spicy gumbo. They are quite flavorful.

  I stare into my empty cereal bowl while seated at the kitchen counter. All these thoughts of vampire culture make me bodysick. It’s like being homesick, but for my old vampire body. I used to love drinking blood. Especially the sensation right before the meal is ending when the human’s arms are desperately flailing about.

  I sigh with longing. I must find a way to become a vampire again.

  I get up and go into the study, finding a pen and paper. I make a list of every ally, every enemy of the Vanderhorsts, and every evil vampire. Surely someone on this list will turn me before my young, healthy body breaks down to middle age. Bleh! I must be young forever or nothing at all.

  I go up to my room, pack my bag, and say goodbye to this family, this house, and this burning hellhole called Arizona.

  I do not need any of it. I do not need Miriam, Vanderhorst, or Stella. I will find my own way through this mess and rise once again to my place at the top of vampire society.

  With a suitcase in hand, I stop in the foyer, realizing I cannot fly.

  No, I mean I cannot fly commercial. I do not possess the proper documentation. I cannot fly the other way either. Vampires can only run fast. I cannot even do that at present.

  I go to the five-car garage and smile. Sorry, Vanderhorst. But you left it behind. I grab the keys from the hook on the wall and climb into the brand-new silver Mercedes G-Class with tinted windows. He loves this boxy SUV beast more than he loves his first-edition books.

  Mine now, Vanderhorst. A tiny consolation prize for all that he has taken from me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After a six-hour drive, I enter the Rusty Nail, a seedy bar in El Paso, Texas. I have not been here in decades, but my old friend Bob the Impaler runs it, and he owes me a few favors. Out of everyone on the list, he is by far my oldest and closest friend.

  There was this one time we traveled on a cruise liner during the 1920s. We had such a time! Drinking and throwing bodies overboard. Every day, ten more passengers would be reported missing. It was utter pandemonium. Eventually, the passengers threw the captain overboard because he was unable to give them answers or protect them. I always did enjoy watching others take the blame for my actions.

  Dressed in my leather pants and black velvet jacket, I enter the dark, smokey bar located in a run-down strip mall next to a grimy bowling alley. The Rusty Nail is a certifiable dump—dirty concrete floor, chipped-up tables, ratty vinyl-covered chairs. A few drunk customers sit slumped over at the bar, and a country tune plays on the jukebox.

  The door closes behind me, and I inhale deeply, savoring the sinister atmosphere. “It is just as a remember.” I even catch the faint scent of copper in the air. Someone has died here recently. Likely one of those cartel typ
es.

  So delicious. It is a well-known fact that the more evil a person is, the spicier their blood. Vampires love anything hot, including chili peppers, raw or in a sauce. Yes, we—I mean vampires—eat human food. These days, I am stuck with bland but healthy meals. My five-year-old tongue is not accustomed to complex flavors or the fiery heat of the coveted ghost pepper.

  I cannot wait to return to my old diet. Also, I must constantly work out to maintain my six-pack. It is exhausting looking so masculine. The sooner I am immortal, the better!

  “Nice, is that you?”

  I look over at Bob, who has just come from the back room. He has golden brown skin, straight black hair down to his waist, and wears a cowboy hat. I am not sure of his actual age, but he has the face of a twenty-year-old. The ladies love his rugged demeanor and long silky hair. I was always jealous of his strong physique. When I was turned the first time, I had been malnourished by my vampire captor. Jealous no more.

  “Bob! Jesss… It is I, your old friend Nicephorus,” I say in my crazy Mr. Nice accent, which no one could ever pin down. Always keep ’em guessing, as Narcissismo used to say.

  We embrace, but Bob squeezes me too hard. I suck up the pain, not wanting him to see my weakness.

  He releases me, and I note an odd look in his dark eyes.

  “It has been many years,” he says, the look growing more nefarious, complete with eye twitches. “You smell so delicious.” He squeezes my bicep. “And my, my, my, how you’ve filled out. So juicy.” He licks his lips. “And your scent…” He throws back his head and inhales. “Spicy!”

  My eyes go wide, and I step back, holding out my hands. “Bob, no. I am chor old friend, Mr. Nice. Do choo not recall the cruise liner? The redheaded twins we shared zat first night? How about the time we went horse shopping to stock your ranch? I picked out zi white stallion and gave it to you as a gift. You named him Moonshine.”