TheVampireandtheMouse

Robin
Stark

Blush sensuality level: This is a sensual romance (may
have explicit love scenes, but not erotic in frequency or type).

Stabbing a man to death was not something Kirsty Dunn had
planned for the night. At work, she is the quiet girl, the unnoticed girl, the
girl with the timid voice, the proverbial office mouse. She is absolutely not
the sort of girl who kills someone.

Six-hundred-year-old vampire Benjamin Bretel is her only
hope for getting away with murder. But as they get to know each other, she
finds that he has much more to offer than just his skill at hiding a body.

A Blush® 
paranormal romance
 from
Ellora’s Cave

I think
office mouse
is the phrase.

Yes, that’s it. I suppose that’s what I am. An office mouse.
It’s a curious phrase, I think. Certainly, I am mouse-like. Though I don’t
squeak, and cheese is by far not my favorite snack. But I am quiet, and I do
move quickly, and I hate attention. I work in the complaints department for a
car-insurance company, and I go home, where I live alone with two cats, and
then go back to work. It’s not a great job, a
career
, but it pays the
bills and that’s okay. I have coworkers, and I have a little fun by giving them
nicknames, but they don’t know about this, and if they did I think I’d go into
some sort of fit of embarrassment. There’s Jack Langdale (Goggles), Michael
Smith (Bin Breath), Andrea Gould (Legs), Simone Winter (Panda Eyes), and Fiona
Barham (The Princess). There are others, but these are the only ones lucky
enough to be gifted with nicknames from yours truly.

But I digress.

Mouse, hmm.

It
is
a curious phrase. Some people are lion-like,
brave and strong and ferocious. But lions aren’t all that brave. They’re at the
top of the food chain. How much bravery does that really require? No, I think
mice are much braver. They spend their whole lives scuttling from one place to
another, always prey to other animals’ rumbling stomachs.

But I’ve digressed, again.

It was July when it all started, a beautiful English July
with healthy interpolations of summer rain and the occasional heat wave. I was
twenty-six and he was, well, he was older. I had worked at that company since I
was eighteen and not once had I been promoted, but I didn’t care. The job was a
job, that’s all. I had no goals in life except a roof over my head and food on
my plate. My job has nothing to do with this story, but, oddly, it is
where
it all started.

I was working a late shift. When I got out it was dark. The
stars shone down like little diamonds from the clear sky, and a few drunk
people stumbled down the road, laughing, shouting, touching, and the crescent
moon winked its shy light down at me. I don’t live in the best area.
Rough
is the word.

I was walking beneath the underpass when they came, two
guys, tough-looking. I was wearing a skirt and a shirt and glasses and my hair
was in a bob. I’m not the most attractive girl in the world. (I’m short with
blonde hair and small, pert breasts and ghost-white skin and blue eyes with
specks of brown.) But men do sometimes show interest. That’s what these men
clearly thought they were doing, at first:
showing interest
. One was two
heads taller than me with a big, sweaty belly that almost exploded from his
tracksuit. The other was short, with ratty hair and a sharp, pointed nose that
jutted from a gaunt face.

“All right, darlin’,” Rat said.

“Fine, thank you,” I said, walking a bit faster.

“Whoa, whoa, where you goin’ all fuck you? Come back an’ say
hello.”

I ignored this and kept walking. I was on the left side,
almost hugging the wall, and they were on the other side, smoking cigarettes.
The
clop-clop-clop
of my heels was loud against the pavement, like a
signal-call, beckoning them. Rat was the first to move, Fat hanging back.

He jogged up in line with me on his side of the path.
“Darlin’, darlin’! Come an’ say hello. You’re a good-lookin’ gal, I’ll give you
that.”

“Nice ass,” Fat said with a laugh from behind.

“Yeah, wouldn’t mind havin’ that from behind!”

Fat laughed loudly and Rat laughed with him. I was almost at
the end of the underpass now. My heart was going
drum-drum-DRUM
in my
chest, in my ears, in my palms, screaming at me to get out of there. Sweat
trickled down my back and between my buttocks and down my legs, and my knees
felt wobbly. You hear those stories all the time, don’t you? Woman beaten to
death by two strangers. Woman raped in underpass. Woman raped and then beaten
to death in underpass by two strangers.

I could already see my picture in some page-eight article,
with a modest paragraph beside an exposé on some celebrity’s makeup ritual and
maybe a few pictures of a funfair.
Oh it’s so sad. Now have you
heard
what she uses in her
hair
?!
I was nearly out, in the blessed safety
of the streetlamps, when I felt a sinewy, claw-like hand grab my wrist.

I screamed, of course. But I also felt
embarrassed
about screaming. And then I felt confused by the embarrassment. Then I screamed
again as I felt another hand, made of jelly and pig fat, grab my bum.

“Oh yeah, baby,” Fat said into my ear. His breath was too
hot and smelt of cider and cigarettes.

I tried to squirm away, but Rat’s hold on my wrist was
strong and Fat was grabbing and pinching my bum. I looked around, breathing
heavily, a curtain coming over my vision, black and red, but nobody was there.
“We’re gunna ’ave some fun, slut,” Rat hissed. “You’re a dirty little
whore
,
aren’t you? You’re a fucking ugly cunt.”

“No,” I squealed, and tried again to pull away.

“Yes, you are,” Rat spat, saliva splattering my shoulder.

“No, no.”

Fat’s hand was up my skirt now, coming close to the top of
my leg. Still, nobody else was in the underpass. “I bet you’re tight,” he
laughed.

“Please, stop,” I said. “Please, I’ll give you money. Do you
want money? I can give you money.”

“Rich bitch,” Rat giggled. “The only thing we want from you
is that little present between your legs.”

“She feels good,” Fat said, his hand on the outside of my
underwear.

Then, something happened. I told you I was an
office
mouse
. That’s true. I’m small and I don’t have muscles or anything like
that. But something came from inside me, some animal instinct I didn’t know I
had. Rat spun me so I was facing him, his dirty face close to mine, while Fat
tried to fit his massive hand in my underwear.

Rat let go of my wrist, just for a second, and that’s when I
reached into my bag, pulled out my scissors, and stabbed the little shit right
in the neck. I stabbed him over and over and over. I fell on top of him, and I
screamed, and I let out all the pain and agony and built-up frustration that
come with being an
office mouse
.

Fat jumped back, bleating. “Crazy bitch!”

I turned on him. But I wasn’t myself. I wanted to kill him,
too. What right did he have? Touching me like that. None. But he turned and
plodded away as fast as he could, his fat jiggling in waves.

Then, the animal instinct left and the
office mouse
returned.

If I believed in miracles, I would say God intervened that
night and stopped anyone from wandering into the underpass. As it is, all I can
say is I was damned lucky.

I stared down at the dead body, at the big, gleaming pools
of blood spreading across the pavement, and thought,
Did I really do that?
I couldn’t believe it. There was so much blood, and Rat’s face, so full of hate
and lust before, was now slack and dead-eyed. I wanted to close his eyes, the
way they do in the films. Overhead, I heard sirens, and for a terrified second
I thought they were coming for me, but then they retreated, echoing into
silence.

I couldn’t just leave the body there, I knew, but the idea
of touching him made me feel sick. I also had no idea what to do. I worked in
the bloody complaints department, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t kill someone and
then move the body. I should’ve been at home right now, with Blinky and Rocky
around my feet and a cup of tea and some bad TV. Kirsty Dunn was no killer.
Kirsty Dunn was an
office mouse
.

“Christ, Christ,
Christ
.”

I slumped against the wall as the panic loomed upon me. It
rose in my chest and made breathing difficult. Thinking was impossible. All I
knew was there was blood on my hands and a dead body close to my feet and the
office mouse had become a killer. I didn’t exactly have friends at the office,
but there were people I talked to and laughed with and passed the day with. If
Goggles and Bin Breath and Legs and Panda Eyes and The Princess could see me
now! Nobody would believe it. I didn’t even believe it.

My throat felt like a boa constrictor had slithered around
it and was tightening its grip. I grabbed at my neck and sucked in all the air
I could. My chest felt like there was a vending machine on it, pinning me down.
And my arms and legs felt like they were made of water, shaking.

I had to run. That was all there was to it. I couldn’t do
anything else. What was I going to do?
Move
the body. I wasn’t some
expert serial killer in one of those American TV shows. I was a squeak-squeak
office mouse. I still couldn’t believe that it was I who had done this. Kirsty
Dunn is a timid, frightened little thing. That’s what people say, I’m sure.
She
means well, but she’s too shy
. Not too shy to stab a man to death,
apparently.

I had decided that running was my only option, but that
wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Standing, for a start, was now a titanic struggle.
I planted my feet and tried to rise, but my knees buckled and I slammed back
down. I tried again and again and, finally, I was on my feet. How long it had
been, I was clueless. It felt like a long, long time. But in reality it was
probably only five minutes since I’d entered the underpass.

I looked down at Rat and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

Then I made toward the streetlamps, the proverbial
end-of-tunnel light, though I doubted there would be any salvation. Only police
inquiries, DNA swabs, a nice, tight cell, and then prison. But I couldn’t do
anything else. One last night, I thought. One last night in my own home with my
cats and freedom. I took it (literally) one step at a time, concentrating on
moving my legs, lest they go all watery again. I must’ve looked absurd, like a
puppet operated by a blind man.

I was almost at the end of the underpass when he walked out.

“What’s your plan, then, leave the body? Doesn’t seem very
smart to me.”

He was tall, around six feet four inches, with smooth black
skin and dark, close-cropped hair. He had the shadow of a beard on his strong
face, and his eyes were so dark they were almost the same color as his skin. He
wore a green t-shirt, tight-fitting, that showed his well-defined muscles, and
cargo trousers.

He walked confidently into the underpass, coming right by
me, and looked quizzically at the body. “Don’t feel bad,” he said casually.
“They were going to hurt you. No harm done.”

“No harm…” I echoed. Then: “Are you police?”

“God no,” he said. His voice was deep with confident, almost
arrogant undertones, as if everything was a joke that existed only for his
amusement.

“Who are you then?”

He didn’t respond for a long time. His eyes were fixated on
the pooling blood as it molded into the crevices in the pavement. Finally, he
looked up at me. “A fellow traveler, like you. Someone just marking time.”

“Are you…” I stopped as a sob rose in my throat. I
swallowed. “Are you going to call the police?”

“Why would I do that?” he said, as if the very idea was
beyond ridiculous.

I nodded down at Rat, but I couldn’t look at him, so I kept
my eyes on the man. There was a small smile on his lips as he stared back at
me. “Oh, him,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“I don’t need to worry.” I said it numbly, everything numb,
even my own words. Some distant part of me thought:
Squeak-squeak,
stab-stab.
“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“What? Why?”

He was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Because—” He
closed his mouth. Slowly, a smile lifted it. “You should never let blood
spoil.” His muscles tensed slightly as he said this, and I found myself tracing
them with my eyes.

This comment was so surreal it forced me back into reality.
Suddenly, everything seemed real, and it was only now I realized how dreamlike
it had seemed before. I took a deep breath and looked around. Still, nobody had
happened across us. But it was only a matter of time. It was late, and it was a
weekday, but still.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t respond. So silently I wouldn’t have known he was
moving if I hadn’t seen it, he walked up to me. He put his hand in my hair. I
flinched away. “No,” I gasped. “No, no.”

“Relax,” he said, and put his hand in my hair again.

I tried to pull away but then he was taking his hand away,
one of my blonde hairs between his thumb and forefinger.

“Why?” I breathed.

“So I can find you. Now get out of here. I’ll deal with our
friend.”

“Deal?”

“Yes, deal, now go. I’ll explain everything tomorrow night.”

“Why would you do this for me?”

“As I said, I’m a fellow traveler. But you can only mark
time for so long.” He smiled and stroked my cheek. For some reason, counter to
all my instincts, I didn’t pull away. “Come on, time to leave.”

“Okay, okay,” I breathed.

I was nearly in the blessed light when I turned. “Wait,” I
said. “At least tell me your name.”

“Benjamin Bretel.”

“I’m Kirsty Dunn.”

“Nice to meet you, Kirsty Dunn. Now leave. This blood isn’t
getting any warmer.”

Ignoring that last comment, I smiled my thanks and ran out
of the underpass. Miracles, miracles. I didn’t believe in them, but how else to
explain Benjamin’s sudden appearance? Luck, I suppose. Yes, I was damned lucky.

When I got in, I scrubbed my hands until the skin bled and
showered and put my clothes in a black bag and hid them under the stairs. Rocky
came and nuzzled my leg as I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. He mewed
and licked my feet.

“Okay, boy,” I said, rising. “Time to eat, I know.”

After I fed the cats I curled into a ball on the sofa.
Everything was the same, quiet, calm, and yet most nights I don’t cry for hours
and hours into a pillow as the bookstand sits undisturbed and the TV blinks in
perpetual standby.