Shadows in the Mist: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

By Kristine Cayne

From the misty waters of Puget Sound across the wrinkles of time to the shadow of Mt. Vesuvius, mystery and magic intertwine to create haunting tales of everlasting passion. This anthology of six novellas is a collaboration of the Seattle-based Rainy Day Writers group.

Murder at the Mausoleum by Marianne Stillings—Out of work and desperate for a job, Stephanie Gabriel reluctantly accepts a position as Housekeeper/Girl Friday for Dr. John Mercilus at his isolated Northern California mansion. Sure, he’s wealthy, hunky, and single, but the fact he’s a Vampire has Stephanie more than a little worried. Though Mercilus promises she’ll come to no harm, there is nonetheless danger afoot. When a major snowstorm maroons them along with an odd assortment of house guests, it’s more than inconvenient – it’s murder, and the clues all point to Stephanie’s boss as the culprit. Now she has to decide whether to trust the enigmatic "Creature of the Night" she’s falling for, or find a means of escape before she becomes the next victim. (17,000 words)

Spellbound in Seattle by Shannon O’Brien—When Rose McCarty’s boyfriend was killed, she swore off witchcraft and love. But when his tall, dark older brother washes up on her houseboat’s deck three years later—muttering about doppelgangers and incubi—Rose’s lonely, spell-free world comes crashing down. (17,600 words)

Dead Moon by KL Mullens—During a Dead Moon Elspeth Saint has a strange encounter she can’t explain and a door previously closed becomes open; a gift is given; a promise is kept; and Elspeth who has never known what it is to be loved; learns what it is to be cherished. (11,000 words)

Evil Bites by Dawn Kravagna—Kim seeks revenge on the serial killer who viciously attacked and maimed her lovely sister. But she soon discovers that evil can bite back. (16,500 words)

The Eye of Lilith by Sherri Shaw—Marc Blakely has been bewitched by a rare artifact rumored to drive a man insane before compelling him to commit suicide. As a member of the Speaker of the Word coven, Cindi Jones uses her magic to destroy enchanted relics and protect the innocents they infect. Can she save Marc in time, or will he succumb to the Eye of Lilith? (19,400 words)

Origins: The Men of MER by Kristine Cayne—Petty Officer Wyatt Black had no idea what he signed up for by joining the Navy’s experimental MER program. When a domestic terrorist attack almost kills Dr. Claire Montgomery, the woman of Wyatt’s dreams, he is exposed to a lethal illness that poses a horrifying threat to mankind—but only because of what the Navy has done to him. In the midst of saving Claire’s life, Wyatt is forced to face the terrifying truth of what he has become: something not quite human. (28,500 words)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristine Cayne
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989197021

Kristine Cayne

Kristine Cayne is fascinated by the mysteries of human psychology—twisted secrets, deep-seated beliefs, out-of-control desires. Add in high-stakes scenarios and real-world villains, and you have a story worth writing, and reading.The heroes and heroines of her Deadly Vices series, beginning with Deadly Obsession, are pitted against each other by their radically opposing life experiences. By overcoming their differences and finding common ground, they triumph over their enemies and find true happiness in each other’s arms.Today she lives in the Pacific Northwest, thriving on the mix of cultures, languages, religions and ideologies. When she’s not writing, she’s people-watching, imagining entire life stories, and inventing all sorts of danger for the unsuspecting heroes and heroines who cross her path.

Book preview

Chapter 1

8:45 A.M.

Beggars can’t be choosy… beggars can’t be choosy… beggars can’t be choosy. I repeated my mother’s oft quoted mantra to my reflection in the rearview mirror. Taking in a deep breath, I cleared my throat, lifted my chin, straightened my spine, sucked in my stomach.

It’s true! I enunciated with bravado. Beggars can not… be… choosy! A lady’s gotta do what a lady’s gotta do! Um, time to woman up! There are no problems, only opportunities!

And if you believe that, I have some ocean-front property in Nevada I’d like to sell you.

I down-shifted to take a tight curve, then checked my rearview mirror again. The hazel eyes that met mine were empty of the courage of conviction I’d been going for. No wonder I’d failed my high school drama class. In all fairness, however, it was tough to demonstrate courage, acceptance, and determination when all you felt inside was panic, fear, and apprehension. I’ll bet even Meryl Streep couldn’t pull it off.

Oh, God. I was so desperate.

My throat closed. Chin dipped. Stomach un-sucked. I let my shoulders droop. I could repeat Beggars can’t be choosy a thousand times and it still wouldn’t be enough to overcome the shame. At the age of thirty-five, my life was a shambles—bank account empty, credit cards maxed, no job, nothing of value left to sell, a sick mom who needed constant care, and a dog with mailman issues. My house was in foreclosure and I had to be out by the end of the week. I’d already sent my teenaged twins to go live with their dad and his new and improved wife. Bitch. Oh, that reminds me, the dog went, too.

Well, any way you sliced it, I was up Poop Creek without a paddle. I needed a job—any job that paid any amount of money. Now. Today. At this point, I was prepared to claim expertise in whatever task a potential employer might ask of me.

Normally, lying is lying, except when you’re applying for a job. Looking for work changes the civilized rules of behavior, and while a responsible applicant would never tell a lie in real life, in a job interview, it’s called skill set enhancement and is accompanied with either a straight face or an ingratiating smile.

Unless the job requires performing open heart surgery or anything involving higher math (such as balancing a checkbook), you can usually get away with it.

Can you juggle coconuts?

Yes. Five at a time with one hand tied behind my back.

Can you perform a somersault off the high dive?

Yes. My mother was an Olympic gold medalist.

Can you tune an engine?

Yes. My father was Mario Andretti.

Are you willing to relocate to Farflungistan?

Yes. My grandmother was born there. I am fluent in Farflungish.

As far as I knew, the job I was on my way to interview for required none of those aptitudes, but it never hurts to be ready, just in case.

Approaching an intersection, my GPS instructed me to turn at the next corner. I did, after which it claimed I was Arriving at destination, on right.

I slammed on the brake, jolting to a hard stop as my skull bounced against my headrest.

Destination turned out to be an enormous iron gate. The accompanying fence to which it was attached disappeared on either side into lithe willow branches and white-washed birch. Pine trees rose high overhead, poking the inky October sky with sharp needles, while gnarled mahogany-skinned Manzanita clung to their trunks like frightened gnomes.

I studied the gate. No call box, no button to push, nothing to give me a clue on how to proceed. The agency hadn’t said anything about a ten-foot iron fence or how I was to get through it. As I reached for my cell phone, the gate began sliding open; not like the Red Sea would, split down the middle, but to the side, like a stiff living room curtain made of rusty metal bars. The mechanism grated and groaned as though it hadn’t been opened since Heck was a pup—as my mom would say. Nothing a little WD-40 wouldn’t fix—the gate, not my mom.

The atmosphere was creepy, especially given the nature of the man with whom I was applying for work. According to the agency, just knowing who he was—rather, what he was—had been enough to keep most applicants away.

But desperation is a mighty force that turns cowards into cowards-pretending-to-be-brave-but-who-are-still-cowards, whistling in the dark as it were.

Assuming the house must be around the corner just ahead, I slowly drove through the gate. Immediately, the iron bars squeaked closed behind me.

All right, then. I was in. I peered through my windshield at the predatory-looking vegetation. Boy, this place sure was out in the boonies. I felt goose-pimples tighten my skin and though the day was cold, it wasn’t the weather that had caused them.

As soon as I rounded the next curve, the road began to rise sharply. Downshifting, I forged ahead, up and around, and up again, curving left then right, until finally, I was nearly at the top. One last curve… and around… and there it was… the house. Ostensibly, my new place of employment.

The thought made me a little queasy.

In my brain, theremin music began to play, high-pitched and ominous like those eerie minor key whines they use to score for B-grade horror and sci-fi flicks.

Wait. A theremin, you ask? Not a violin? Yes, see, when you’re a writer—even a failed one such as myself—you pick up a lot of useless information, theremins being one of the more obscure facts I have vying for space inside my brain.

I shook my head, but the music remained.

The architecture of the three-story house, er, mansion I should say, had a 1920’s 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 sat, it looked like the Winchester Mystery House had collapsed onto a dilapidated English manor and been rebuilt by near-sighted Neanderthals using the blueprint for Hogwarts.

Even so, it was amazingly not un-attractive, consisting of dark half-timbers, turrets, leaded windows, red brick and white plaster. Spires and chimneys jutted up in odd places.

I parked near a stone walkway that led into the garden. Working to ignore my trepidation, I approached the house.

Raising my hand, I prepared to knock, but before I had a chance, the heavy door eased open, revealing a sort of… woman person. Her skin was pale as milk (but not like whole milk, thick and creamy; more like non-fat, 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 stared. I couldn’t help it. I opened my mouth to speak; she beat me to it.

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

I let the fact I had not rung or knocked or yelled or coughed go by, and simply said, Hi.

Her shiny black eyes studied me.

I’m Stephanie Gabriel, I added. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Mercilus. It’s about the housekeeper position?

The 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. De dock-tor is in de study. She stepped back, allowing me passage into the cavernous foyer. Closing the door, she turned to face me. Hands clasped over her stomach, she droned, He is vaiting for 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—hm, that might make a good book title—but the agency had promised I would be in no danger.

Again, theremin music curled around my eardrums, and I resolved that if my potential employer showed 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—fairly normal anyway. It was a little shadowy, a little dusty, the windows needed washing, the carpet could use a good hoovering, as the Brits would say. Perhaps the slightly unkempt state of the place was the reason the doctor needed a new housekeeper?

Oil paintings the size of which approached the square footage of Delaware, and a variety of really old-looking tapestries adorned the walls, while 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, long (taking in a mental deep breath) lon-n-n-ng corridor lined with gilt-framed oil paintings—portraits of the doctor’s ancestors, I assumed. At the end of the wide gallery stood an ornately carved oak door.

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

What, not Master? I suppressed a nervous laugh.

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 and vanish around the corner.

I didn’t hear the flap of batwings, 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 sapien vs. Chiroptera—the door had opened.

I turned to face the doctor, and…

Oh.

Oh, my.

Chapter 2

10:05 A.M.

Words would not come. Speech would not come. If I so much as tried to talk, I knew I would 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 Gab… uh, what was my name again?

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

Dr. John Mercilus looked to be my age, give or take a few hundred years, and he was tall, many inches taller than I. He was good looking in an action hero sort of way, especially with that dark hair and those sexy 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 gain control of my senses, I stumbled, Oh? Uh. Leech? Scare? No. Me? Scare? No, but, like, well… I… you… I … we… who, she? Her? I mean she… or you, 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 smiled.

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 the gold-rimmed glasses he wore.

Sigh.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the Superman/Clark Kent thing, but broad-shouldered myopic heart-throbs 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 Gabriel. Very nice to meet you. 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 bit short on pectin.

I realize that’s too many metaphors, but my brain was simply incapable at the moment of editing my remarks. Confused as to what was going on, I inhaled a deep breath and shook my head to try and put all the marbles back where they belonged.

I’m John Mercilus, he said, opening the door a little wider. Step into my office, won’t you?

Said the spider to the fly.

Afraid to meet his eyes again, I moved 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 slip my hand from his. When he indicated the leather wing chair next to his desk, I sat, then watched while he picked up what was obviously a copy of my resume. Let’s get down to it, shall we?

Yes. Oh hell yes. Whatever we should get down to, we definitely should get down to it right now.

Before we begin, I want to make sure the agency informed you that I am a Vampire.

Yes. They were very clear about that.

Though I always explain 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.

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, blinking away his potent effect on me. She is.

He 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 is my current housekeeper-slash-secretary-slash-factotum and she’s leaving. The timing for me couldn’t be worse, so I need to replace her as soon as possible.

Timing?

Yes. She’s leaving in less than a week. Whoever I hire will have to learn Leech’s household duties and the rest very quickly.

The rest? The rest? Just as I was relaxing a bit, there went my nerves again.

He waved his hand dismissively. I have a houseful of Hollywood types who arrived yesterday and since I can’t be with them the whole time they’re here, Leech was to see to their comfort and continue running the household.

And that would be my job.

Yes. He sat back in his desk chair. Have you ever worked as a housekeeper?

Not professionally.

Secretary?

Nuh-uh.

Admin or personal assistant?

I considered my views regarding lying on job interviews, but since I’d basically been self-employed since graduating college, in truth, I was not only not qualified for this job, I wasn’t qualified for any job.

Leaning forward, I gave him a wide smile. See, here’s the thing. I’ve kept my own house, typed business letters, and done the work an admin would do, if I ever had one. If you’ll give me a chance to prove myself, I’m sure you’ll see I learn quickly, work hard, and am efficient.

He eyed me for a moment, then said, You’re a published author.

"Yes. Was. I was an author."

Editors aren’t buying cozy mysteries, Steph. Bookstores aren’t stocking them, and readers aren’t reading them anymore.

I don’t know if a writer can acquire post traumatic disorder by losing her publishing house, but I have to say, my agent’s crushing words lived on in my memory, replaying inside my head just as surely as if I’d witnessed a train wreck.

What happened to my fans?

They’re a dying breed, Steph. Literally. Your readership has generally been, um, ladies of a certain age, and one-by-one they’re passing through the Pearly Gates into the Hereafter… which apparently does not possess a Barnes and Noble.

Mrs. Gabriel? Dr. Mercilus’ voice penetrated my reverie, bringing me back into the moment. His blue eyes narrowed on me. Are you okay?

I straightened in my chair. Yes. Fine. Thanks.

He studied me for a moment, then seemed satisfied I was telling the truth and said, I’m so sorry. I don’t believe I’ve read anything you’ve written.

Based on my last royalty check, you’re not the only one, pal.

I smiled and said lightly, Oh, pshaw. No apology necessary. So many books; so little time and all that.

May I ask what it is you write?

I licked my lips. "Um, I wrote cozy romantic mysteries."

He picked up a pen and pad from his desk. You write under your own name? Can you suggest a couple of titles so I can give you a read?

My heart jolted. He wanted to read one of my books?

Oh.

Oh, no.

Chapter 3

10:30 A.M.

Clearing my throat, I said, I’m sure someone such as yourself wouldn’t find my stories very interesting. They’re mostly for women, you see. They’re romances and—

Men like romance.

Silence. I think I blinked, but I can’t be sure. I know I averted my gaze, looked down to study my fingernails.

To my bowed head, he said softly, I… like romance.

I raised my head, prepared to respond, but the words died in my throat before they’d even formed. Many days, I’m the queen of brilliant comebacks, but apparently not today.

Mercilus pushed his glasses up on his nose. You were going to give me a couple of titles?

Normally, I love talking about writing and how I came to be published, about my plots and why I chose them. But I didn’t want to talk to this man about any of that, and I certainly didn’t want him reading my books.

Every insecurity I had began gnawing away at my already-face-down-in-the-dirt confidence and my lost sense of literary self-worth.

Few men read romances; fewer men got them. He would open my book, flip through the pages. Fluff, he’d think. Typical bodice ripper. Yawn. Hardly worthy of his time.

I knew that’s what he’d think; it’s what they all thought.

I’m not sure why I cared what he thought, though, only for some reason, it became very important to me I have his respect.

"My first book was Magnolia McMurder, I stated in a so-you-want-to-make-something-of-it-buster? sort of way. It’s about a retired Southern schoolteacher who teams with a former district court judge to solve a series of killings at the senior center where they live. And in doing so, they, um, you know… fall in love."

I carefully watched his response, and had to give him credit—without so much as a smirk, he jotted down the title. Sounds charming.

"Thank you. Uh, let’s see. Next was Arsenic and Hemlock and Strychnine, Oh My."

That one’s about poisons, I trust? He smiled into my eyes.

Yes. A retired bookkeeper and a former tax auditor team up to solve a series of killings in the small town where they live. And in doing so, they, uh, you know, like in the other book, fall in love.

How many books have you published, Mrs. Gabriel?

Ten. There are, I mean, there were ten.

We sat quietly for a moment, then he said, Just so I’ll know basically where you are with this, could you tell me what you know about Vampires?

I considered his question. Mentally, I began preparing a bulleted list.

Okay, I began. A vampire used to be a regular person who was bitten by a vampire. Once you’re bitten, you become immortal and are referred to as The Undead, but since you’re actually dead, you can’t be killed in the usual way.

I raised a brow and looked at him for verification. He gave none, but simply said, Please go on.

Blowing out a breath, I said, Yeah, like, vampires are immortal as long as they have a constant supply of fresh blood, so they’re always looking for victims, either people or animals—wolves seem to be a popular choice. Vampires can only come out at night because sunlight makes them shrivel up into humanoid prunes. Victims are helpless against their physical and mental powers, but a person can hold a vampire at bay by using the sign of the cross, either a little one dangling on a necklace, or two crossed candlesticks. Ice cream sticks would probably work, too, though I’d be nervous trying that one out.

Across from me, Mercilus’ face remained interested, but unreadable.

Garlic, I went on, seems to keep them at arm’s length, as it does most of the men I’ve dated. They sleep in coffins that contain dirt from their homeland—vampires, not the men I’ve dated… I paused, tapped my jaw. Mostly.

Anything else? he said, his eyes curiously bright.

I tilted my head and let my gaze wander to the window. Hmm, yes, a couple of other things, I mused. They can turn into bats in order to fly through large screen-less bedroom windows carelessly left open, while nubile young women in flimsy nightwear lay sleeping with their necks and cleavage exposed. Vampires are either Nosferatu ugly or Hugh Jackman handsome, depending on whether the heroine is supposed to be repulsed by the vampire or have lots of sex with him.

Interesting, was the doctor’s only response. I can see you’ve given this a great deal of thought.

I shrugged. Not really. Everything I know about vampires I learned in the movies.

Ah. Tenting his fingers in front of his chin, he said, Those stereotypes are what this docudrama is intended to dispel.

The Hollywood types?

Yes, he said. A film crew, to be exact. I only agreed to let them use my home in the hopes that their docudrama might further my cause.

Your cause?

He shrugged in such a way that showed his frustration. For many years, Vampires have tried without success to end people’s fear of us. To make it clear we are not the blood-sucking monsters portrayed in books and movies, and therefore are not a threat to anyone. When the director approached me and asked me to relate my own personal struggle, I agreed. He thought using the Mausoleum would make the perfect location for such a film, which is why I need to find a replacement before Leech departs.

Departs? Interesting choice of words.

May I ask, I ventured, why Leech is de… leaving?

He seemed to cast about for the right words. Then, It’s a bit complicated, so just let me say that every few years, she must return to her homeland for a period of time in order to perform rituals necessary to her health and continued longevity.

I was confused. Do all Vampires have to do that?

Leech isn’t a Vampire. She’s a member of a larger, more diverse grouping generally known as Creatures of the Night. He flashed those pearly-whites again. Vampires are in a class by ourselves.

I’ll say.

Still a bit confused, I asked, How many kinds of Creatures of the Night are there?

Dozens, he said. They include gnomes, demons, succubae, and zombies, generally thought of as useless, blood-sucking parasites.

So Leech’s homeland is Transylvania?

No. Washington, D.C.

Ah.

He relaxed back into his chair. Did the agency tell you the job is a live-in position?

I pressed my lips together and nodded.

Room and board are supplied in addition to a monthly salary. Your evenings and weekends are free, unless there’s a function that requires your presence. Such events are pretty rare, though.

I see. I did see, but I still had one big question that needed answering. The agency assured me, I began cautiously, and you have reassured me that I am in no danger, however, I’m sure you can understand my trepidation. Vampires have a really, really, really bad reputation.

A flash of irritation crossed his features. Let me just say that, while Vampires have existed for many hundreds of years, the traits attributed to us such as you described came directly from Bram Stoker’s imagination, and are a complete fabrication. It was—and is—fanciful fiction, nothing more.

But there is such a place as Transylvania.

True. But Stoker never actually went there. Originally, he was going to set his story in Austria, but when he looked at a map of Europe, he decided on Transylvania as being more exotic, remote, a place where a character such as Count Dracula might have existed.

Well, that was interesting, but it still didn’t answer my question. You are a Vampire, though, yes?

He blinked a few times, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes. True, Mrs. Gabriel. But Vampires are an ethnic group in the same way as Slavs or Hispanics or Celts. Stoker’s book condemned us forever, though I’m sure that wasn’t his intent. He simply wanted to write a thrilling story. He wrote many other books, but Dracula is the only one people remember.

Vampires aren’t The Undead?

The Undead was a term coined by Stoker. He was a sickly boy and didn’t even walk until he was seven. To entertain him, his mother told him stories of the plagues and where some people who were thought to have succumbed and were even buried, awoke and climbed out of their graves at the last minute, thereby seeming to come back to life from death. Those sorts of stories and images would have had a powerful effect on Stoker’s imagination.

How do you know all this? You seem to have a truly deep knowledge of the topic.

Yes, well, as a victim of constant ridicule and persecution, I made it my business to find the truth, and now this docudrama should share the truth with the whole world. Watching me, his eyes were curiously bright. Have I set your mind at ease, Mrs. Gabriel?

No. Yes. Thank you.

Like I said, I needed a job and I needed it now.

He stood. Well, I think we’re done here.

Slowly I rose to my feet. This interview was obviously over, and I was still unemployed. But before I could thank him for his time, he interrupted me.

Mrs. Gabriel, I find you to be neat, clean, smart, personable, dedicated. You are desperate for a job—don’t deny it—and I am equally desperate for a housekeeper. If it works for you, it works for me. You’re hired.

Wha-th-fu…? Hired? Me? Now? Just like that?

Stomping down on my urge to let go with a nervous giggle, I said, It definitely works for me. Thank you. I won’t let you down. I promise. I felt tears sting my eyes, and blinked them away. When would you like me to start?

Now, he stated. Today. This minute. Can you?

Oh, um, yes. Well, almost. I just have to arrange for my mother to be cared—

Bring her.

I looked up, my brows lifted in surprise. Bring her? Bring her where?

Here, he said. I understand she’s ill and needs looking after. Forgive me, but I spoke with the agency earlier to find out why someone with your abilities was applying for a job in which she had no professional experience. So, as far as your mother is concerned, we have plenty of room and this way, you won’t be worried she’s not being properly cared for.

Just who was this guy? Where had he come from? Was he too good to be true? Dear God, he wasn’t planning on making a meal of me and my mother? The agency had a signed contract that clearly stated Dr. Mercilus would not feast on my blood, but what about my mother’s?

Oh.

Oh, dear.

Chapter 4

11:30 A.M.

Before I could think on it further, he said, I’ll send my men to bring whatever you need for you and your mother. You both will be perfectly safe here. I give you my word.

I searched his deeply blue eyes for any signs of duplicity. I saw none, but instead, was once more overcome by that dreamy, languid feeling. Any reservations I had died on my lips, unspoken. All I felt was an odd sense of peace and well-being.

‘Kay, I murmured. Mm-hmm. Sure. You betcha. I yawned, covering my mouth with my hand. Honestly, I’m neither bored nor sleepy, so I don’t know why…

You need not explain. His tone was soft, and though I didn’t know why I felt such lethargy, I got the distinct impression he did. He cocked his head and seemed to study me, but made no further comment other than to continue with, We can work out the details, go over your responsibilities, and do the employment and tax form paperwork when you return. It looks as though it may snow tonight, so the sooner you get back and settled in, the better.

Either through timing or some subtle signal, there came three knocks on the door and it opened. The current housekeeper virtually floated into the room.

Dr. Mercilus stood and turned to me. The address on your resume is current?

I nodded.

Superb. My men will put the remainder of your things in our storage shed.

Oh. Um. Thank you. Thank you so much.

He smiled as his eyes met mine. You can expect Igor and Wolf in about an hour.

Igor and Wolf? No. Really? Igor and Wolf?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or wet my pants.

Leech, he said to the housekeeper. Mrs. Gabriel is now in my employ. She and her mother will be taking up residence here later today. Please have rooms readied as soon as possible.

The woman’s brows arched only slightly as she stabbed a look into her employer’s eyes. With a quick glance in my direction, she cleared her throat. As you vish, sir.

By the way, he added, his lips curving into a wry smile. I was just informing Mrs. Gabriel what a great sense of humor you have.

Dead silence reigned while they stared at each other. Finally, Leech nodded. As though she were reading the yellow pages aloud in search of a root canal specialist, she pronounced, I am more fun den a barrel off monkeys.

As you escort Mrs. Gabriel to the door, why don’t you tell her one of your jokes. Turning to me once more, he said, I have arrangements to tend to. It’s a pleasure meeting you, Stephanie. May I call you Stephanie?

Yes, of course. And may I call you whenever I need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? Thank you so much for this opportunity, Dr. Mercilus. I’ll do a good job for you.

I do not doubt that we’ll be a good fit, he said quietly. No doubt whatsoever.

Well, that sure could be taken two ways. I wondered in which way he meant it?

I know the first thing that popped into my mind.

He said nothing further, but quickly left the room. As soon as he was gone, Leech gestured for me to follow her down the hall. As we walked, she said in her morose monotone, Three Vampires valk into a bar.

It’s okay Leech, I rushed. Please don’t feel obliged to tell me a jo—

De barmaid approaches. She stared straight ahead as she spoke, walking along the gallery as though she were in a trance. ‘Vat vill it be?’ says de barmaid. De first Vampire says, ‘I vill heff a mug uff blood.’ De second Vampire says, ‘I, too, vill heff a mug uff blood.’ De third Vampire speaks up. ‘I vill heff a glass of plasma.’ De girl turns to de bartender and says, ‘Order up; two bloods and a blood light!’

The punch line was followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a cat choking up a wet hairball. Leech continued making that sound and snorting through her nose until we reached the front door.

Her hand on the knob, she turned to me. "Velcome to de Mausoleum. De Heir Dock-tor seems