To Catch a Vampire

Copyright Information

To Catch a Vampire
© 2012 Jennifer Harlow

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-2974-9

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover design
by
Kevin R. Brown

Cover illustration © Carlos Lara Lopez

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Dedication

To Susan Hannon & Heather Winger,
for introducing me to horror movies and comic books.
Thanks.

There’s a stake in your

fat black heart

And the villagers never

liked you.

They are dancing and

stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

—“Daddy” by Sylvia Plath

You just make friends everywhere, don’t you?

—Beatrice Alexander to Oliver Montrose

One

Brotherly Love

I think I just
officially realized I am a true-blue freak. Drat.

For the past two months—God, has it only been that long?—I’ve been fighting the good fight against creatures of the night, and you know what? Sitting in this Starbucks, drinking an overpriced coffee, surrounded by people chatting with friends or working on their novel, it dawns on me: There isn’t one normal thing about my life. I am not a part of this world anymore. I live in a mansion in the middle of Kansas with psychics and monsters, jetting to places like Butte, Montana, and Trenton, New Jersey, in order to stop homicidal, preternatural nasties. Now I drink my coffee in the middle of the night in diners, sitting across from either a werewolf eating more meat than a pack of lions, or a vampire grinning at me with bloody teeth. Meeting my brother, who I almost accidently killed a few months ago, is the first ordinary thing I’ve done in awhile. How freaking sad.

To say Brian hates me is an understatement. He blames me for killing our mother eighteen years ago. On a bad day, I blame me too, but I didn’t force her head into our gas oven, though try telling Brian that. As if the “you ruined my life” thing wasn’t bad enough, he’s also deathly afraid people will judge him for being related to me. To a man who models everything he does, down to what brand of socks he buys, on other people’s reactions, having a sister who can pick up a Buick without lifting a finger doesn’t exactly scream normal.

When he was living just a couple of hours from me, he never spoke to me or bothered to call except when absolutely necessary. Yet when I’m a plane ride away, I get a call to meet for coffee. He can’t stand to be in the same room as me, and now he’s volunteered to do it? This is not going to be fun.

I’ve been waiting ten minutes, growing more apprehensive with each passing second. I don’t know what to expect. The last time I saw Brian, I almost killed him. Accidently. Really. I had no control over my curs—sorry,
gift
.
He was calling me nasty names and I blew my top; came close to literally blowing his off too. No excuse, I know, for almost giving someone a brain aneurysm, but it was bad.
Really bad
.
Thank God there was no permanent damage, at least to his physical self.

I pull down the sleeves of my turtleneck and make sure the high neck covers the two circular scars the size of pencil erasers. The long sleeves cover the chunk of skin missing from my arm. I feel like a walking hot dog in the July heat, but it’d be just too hard to explain the marks. As far as my family knows, I’m running a daycare program for a national company and living alone in a crummy apartment. I wish the government could have come up with a more glamorous cover story. That way I could have driven Oliver’s Jaguar convertible to this meeting instead of a seven-year-old Camry. At least then I could console myself with the fact my materialistic brother would turn green with envy.

I see Brian before he sees me. My defenses immediately go up. I tense as he walks up to the door, cell phone stapled to his ear as always. The person on the other end says something very amusing judging from the smile on Brian’s face. Smiling, that’s a good sign. He closes the phone a moment later, and walks in. Within seconds, he catches sight of me, and the smile disappears. Bad sign. Very bad sign. This is going to be heck.

Avoiding my gaze, he walks around the other tables to my booth. He’s out of place here in his gray suit and red tie, surrounded by people in jeans and tank tops. They probably think he’s here for a business meeting. It would never cross their minds that we’re brother and sister. Well, technically we’re half brother and sister. Different fathers. Brian’s was some musician who dumped our mother when she was five months pregnant. All she told me about mine was that he was mysterious, handsome, and “the one night we shared together was the most magical of my life.” In other words, I am the product of a one-night stand with a man whose name she never bothered to get. Both Brian and I inherited Mom’s brown eyes and thin lips, but the similarities stop there. He has straight, medium-brown hair cut short and is a thin six feet tall. I am stuck with frizzy, wavy brown hair and a sturdy peasant build that no amount of time on the treadmill can make pass for “slim.” I should be the one who hates him.

As he slips into the chair across from me, I give him a smile. It isn’t returned. “I didn’t order for you,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says, “I can’t stay long.”

“Oh. Why?”

“I’m just in town to get some contracts signed. Hugh Jackman is filming a movie here.” Brian’s in entertainment law. He can name drop with the best of them. “Nana wanted me to check on you.”

“Oh.”

“You look … well. Lost weight?”

“Yeah, a little.”

He glances at his watch. “Good. Good.”

“You look good too. How’s the job going?”

“Fine. Yours?”

“Fine. Interesting.”

“Oh.”

We sit in silence, neither looking at the other. The elephant in the room practically trumpets. It’s my elephant, I’ll put it down. “I was surprised to hear from you.
Glad,
but surprised. I thought—”

“Look, whatever you
thought
, you thought wrong. I am here simply because Nana asked me to see you while I was in the Midwest. Nothing else.” His phone chirps. When he reaches for it, the gold ring on his left hand catches my eye. “And now I can tell her you’re alive with all limbs intact.” He opens the phone, scanning the message. “Damn it!”

Brian stands, flipping the phone closed. He doesn’t give me so much as a glance as he walks out of the shop. I’m not even worth a goodbye.

I sit glued to my seat, my mouth slack. That’s it? I drove an hour to have my brother take one look at me and leave? Now, old Bea would hang her head, slink back to her car, and cry her eyes out. She’d make excuses for him. She’d let him get away with this. But the new and improved, monster-hunter Bea picks up her purse and follows the jerk out of the coffee shop.

I catch sight of him right away in the parking lot. “Brian!” He glances back but continues walking. I run after him, but he refuses to stop walking.

“Leave me alone,” he says, still walking.

“No. We need to talk. I’ll follow you to your hotel if I have to!” This stops him. I’ve hit his Achilles heel: introducing his oddball sister to his colleagues.

He spins around. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well, I do!”

He folds his arms. His anger rolls into me like a tapeworm. I hate when emotions hit so unexpectedly that my stomach doesn’t have time to prepare. “Then speak!”

“Please don’t yell at me! God, I’m trying to apologize here!”

“Right,” he scoffs. “Well, I don’t want your fucking apology. You tried to kill me.”

“That was an accident.”

“I could give a damn! I had to miss two days of work because I was in the fucking hospital being poked and tested! I still get migraines, and will for the rest of my life. Not to mention you scared the hell out of Nana. So, your apology means
shit
to me.” He starts playing with his wedding ring. “The only consolation out of the whole debacle is you moved a thousand fucking miles away from everyone I care about so you don’t almost kill them too. And if you give a damn about any of us, you’ll stay here and never come back. We don’t want you there.”

“Does that
we
include your wife?”

His righteous anger disappears, replaced with the look of a young boy caught looking at Daddy’s secret magazines. “Nana told you?”

“Your wedding ring told me.” He stops playing with it, and I’m chagrined to hear my voice grow quieter. “You got married and weren’t even going to tell me about it?”

He clears his throat, refusing to look at me. I’ve learned through two months of investigating that this is a sign of a guilty man. He squares his shoulders to regain some dignity. “I didn’t want you there.”

“Is it Rennie?”

“Of course it’s Rennie.” He’d been dating Renata Goldman, daughter of Hollywood producer James Goldman, for almost two years. She’s the one who got him the entertainment lawyer gig at Sunrise Studios. (That’s one other thing Brian and I have in common: our love of old movies. Nana’s influence.) I’ve only met Rennie a few times in passing. Skinny, rich, beautiful, classy, but Nana says she’s sweet. It’s just typical; my brother marries into the movie world, and I don’t even have time to watch them anymore. Life stinks.

“And you’re going to find out eventually, so I might as well tell you now. She’s pregnant.”

This time I’m the one with the surprised look. “Really?”

“Yeah. She wants to have it. I couldn’t convince her otherwise.”

I’m taken aback. “Why would you?”

He scoffs again. “Why the fuck do you think? It could be like
you
. Some
…
freak. Just what I need in my life, another you.” He sneers. “Just stay away from my family, okay?” He glances at his watch. “Shit, I’m going to be late now. Don’t follow me.” He turns his back and walks away. I don’t move until his car, a Mustang convertible, pulls away. He doesn’t look back once. Good. He doesn’t see me wiping away stupid tears. Yes, even freaks cry.

_____

Jab. Jab! Jab. Right hook! Jab. Kick! Jab.
Die.
Kick!
Stupid.
Uppercut!
Bag!
I stop attacking the defenseless hardbag to catch my breath and wipe the sweat off my face. My arms quiver as I raise them. Crud, I overdid it. I won’t be able to pick up so much as a pencil for the next hour. So worth it though. An hour of crying in the car followed by an ice cream sundae, a Cary Grant movie, and a half hour of hitting an inanimate object just makes things better for some reason. It was probably more the sundae than the punching though. Sugar tends to quell my homicidal tendencies.

“You are a stalking, creepy pervert who needs a hobby,” I say, pulling the straps off my gloves.

I look over my shoulder at the gorgeous creature filling the doorway. Oliver Montrose, vampire pain in my butt, leans against the door sipping what I’ll pretend is fruit punch from a yellow mug with “Florida” written on it. At least it’s not his “World’s Greatest Lover” mug. Even better, he’s not shirtless as he usually is around me. He looks just as good though in a sky blue dress shirt and khakis—more like an investment banker on Martha’s Vineyard than a creature of the night. He must be going to town. That’s the only time he retires the red silk and leather jacket.

“I am simply—”

“Admiring the view,” I cut in. “Yeah, get a new line please.” I yank off the gloves and hang them on the bag. “Seriously, I am close to taking a restraining order out against you. Every time I come down here, there you are!”

“How long have you known I was standing here?”

“Since you got there. I could feel your eyes on my behind.” I so have to remember to wear my sweatpants instead of the spandex ones.

He glides—yes, glides—into the room. There is nothing clunky about this man or anything he does. Ballerinas could take lessons on grace from him. “And yet, you let me stay.” He stops a few feet away, a small all-too-familiar grin plastered on his face. I call this one “Oliver Full of Himself, Number Three.” With the other two, he resembles a fanged Cheshire cat.

“Because I don’t have the energy to deal with you tonight,” I say, picking up my towel and wiping my cheeks. “So, let’s just sum this up. ‘Oh, Trixie, you are so sexy sweating like that. Let’s you and me do something in my bedroom where we can sweat together.’ ‘Oliver, Paris Hilton will be a member of MENSA before that happens.’ The end. See, saved us ten minutes.” I collect my water bottle and walk past him. Darned if I don’t feel his eyes on my derriere again.

“Something has upset you,” he says. I turn back around. “You attacked the bag with the ferocity of a lioness defending her cubs.”

“Well, I was thinking about you,” I say like a mouthy teenager. “That must explain it.”

“The meeting with your brother did not go well I take it?”

My mouth drops open. “How did you know about that? I didn’t tell anyone.” Well, not anyone who is currently in this house, and I doubt Will said anything, especially to Oliver.

“There are no secrets in this house, my dear.” He steps closer, meeting my eyes. “What did he say to distress you so?”

I don’t want to tell him. I want to superglue my lips together, but those gray eyes rimmed with thick black lashes do something to me. It’s not vampire magic, as numerous boring tests in the lab have proven I’m immune to for some reason. No, it’s
that look
. That look of “If you share with me I will do everything in my power, I will rearrange heaven, to make it all better.” It’s moments like this where I almost want to … well, lips in naughty places are involved. I look away before I become the whore of Kansas.

“He said the usual. I’m a freak, he wants nothing to do with me, and I should never set foot in California again. Oh, and then he told me he got married and didn’t invite me. And that my new sister-in-law is pregnant, but if the kid turns out like me, it won’t be an Alexander for long. So yeah,
great
meeting. Thanks for making me relive it again. Good night, I’m going to get plastered.”

I turn back around and
poof
!
He’s moved five feet in a millisecond. I’ve actually gotten used to the “poofing” by now. Maybe in two more months my knee will be ready for his groin when he does it. “Move or I move you,” I say.

“No.”

“Seriously, don’t mess with me tonight, Oliver. I’m just itching to make something bleed, okay?”

“He should not have said those things to you. It was done solely to hurt you.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“He remains in town still?”

“I suppose. He didn’t exactly share his plans with me.”

“Would you like me to take care of him?”

“Um
…
” I’m stunned into silence. I wait for him to crack a smile but wait in vain. The expression I’ve only seen about six times in two months remains. It’s usually followed by violence. “Did—did you just offer to kill my brother?”