Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply (8 page)

I still hadn’t forgiven him for dying.

“It’s almost four o’clock,” said Dove. “Don’t you have a gala to attend in three hours?”

“Shut up.”

Dove offered me one of her patented sneers. “Dress, right? High heels. Makeup. Fancy hairdo. All your favorites.”

“I hate you.” Every so often I had to play nice with the regents, especially when they were glad-handing the alumni (who also weren’t particularly fond of me). We didn’t have fund-raisers, since the college was generously funded through the Jameson Foundation. I think sometimes the regents wanted to host fund-raisers because they harbored hope that they could raise the millions needed to run the school and wouldn’t need Jameson money to operate. They didn’t like asking me for checks. I was very circumspect about spending money—and no one got away with abusing the privileges of their position. We paid everyone well, but misuse of school money for personal expenditures would get your ass fired. Just ask the last college president, who thought taking his mistress to Fiji for a week of fun and frolicking was a “research” trip. There wasn’t a whole lot of red tape when it came to getting rid of assholes. I had ultimate say, and power, when it came to administration. Ah. Just another reason I was so popular with everyone. They sometimes blamed my eccentricities, along the lines of “that bitch is still crazy,” but no one was brave enough to say such things to my face. No, they followed college protocol and talked about me behind my back. Then they put on big, bright smiles that never reached their eyes to ask me for money.

This particular gala was a charity event put on by people I actually liked, the Heart of Darkness Literary Society, which was a student-run organization. The funds were distributed among literacy programs throughout the United States. Everyone attended not only because it was a popular event, but also because it was well covered by the media. And regents, alumni, and assorted other bores liked to remind the public how altruistic they were.

Sigh.

“You’re going with me,” I said.

Dove stared at me for a full thirty seconds. One of the more effective weapons in her snark-casm arsenal was utter silence accompanied by her
you-are-stupid-and-wrong
expression.

But I was immune to Dove’s sneers, slights, silence, and all eighteen forms of her sarcasm.

I said nothing, and we sat in my office staring daggers at each other. Finally, she gave a low, dramatic sigh and said, “I’m wearing a corset.”

“And those ballerina boots? Those shiny red ones with the crazy toes?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Your pet will be on display.”

“You’re not my pet,” I said. Then I opened one of the lower drawers in my desk and withdrew a rectangular gold box. “Wanna treat?”

Dove stood up and held out her hand. “I’m not settling for one truffle. The whole box, or I dress like my maiden aunt.”

She had me. Seeing Dove show up in one of her outrageous outfits designed to inspire both awe and horror was probably the only entertainment I’d have tonight.

“You don’t have a maiden aunt,” I said as I handed over the box of Godiva chocolates.

“Thank you for reminding me that my entire family is dead. And that I have no one on this earth who loves me.” She delivered these lines deadpan, but unfortunately these were also her truths. Dove didn’t have family. Except for me. Not that I would ever admit to the little shit that she was like my sister. I understood the loneliness that lived inside her because it lived in me, too. When my grandfather died, I had no one left, either.

Dove and I were orphans. It was one of the aspects of our lives that bonded us.

Not that we’d ever gone on
Dr. Phil
and discussed it, or anything.

Dove lifted the lid to the box to ensure that no chocolates had been pilfered. She sniffed. “I am appeased. You will have your show.”

“Excellent.”

She leaned down and tapped the atrocious vampire book. “Chapter twelve,” she said. “Read it.”

“Sure. Right after I finish
War and Peace
.”

“You are an idiot.” She clutched the chocolates to her chest and spun on her heel. Then she paused and looked over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later. Don’t wear that black lace thing. It’s awful.”

“I love that dress.”

“Which is why you wear it to every function. Burn it, and then explore all those designer clothes in your closet. You’re a fucking billionaire. Act like it.” She swept out of the office and shut the door behind her.

Well, shit. I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my temples. I wasn’t really looking forward to getting dolled up and prancing around at this party. Despite my grumbling about the politics involved with running of a college, I had a deep respect for the institution. I had always enjoyed learning, and teaching as well. But what I really loved was getting hip-deep in sand and uncovering the past one tiny piece at a time. Archaeology required devotion, passion, and infinite patience. I didn’t want to seek treasure; I wanted to seek truth. I wanted to understand the past, to find a window into the lives of people who’d lived three thousand years ago, those stalwart souls who had loved, and fought, and cleaned houses, raised children, written stories, built pyramids. Yes, answering the questions about those lives lived so long ago was what I sought. Connections, I supposed.

I glanced at the clock on my desk, and heaved a tormented sigh. The countdown to gala time had begun, and I didn’t want to go home and sort through my closet. After Dove’s crack about my black lace dress—which was modest and pretty, FYI—the hell if I would wear it now.

I looked down at the book. A pink Post-it note stuck out of the top. No doubt Dove had marked the location of chapter 12. Well, it was either explore the theory of ancient Egyptian vampires or start Operation Beautify. Winner: procrastinating with the undead.

When I opened the book, I noticed that Dove had made notations in the margins and had even highlighted portions of text. Say what you wanted about her attitude and style, the girl was smart and studious. And had no respect for the sanctity of the printed page.

As I started to read the chapter’s introductory paragraph, my academic arrogance deflated. The tone was crisp, informative, and wry with humor. Theodora Monroe wrote seriously about her topic while also acknowledging the absurdity associated with it.

I was three pages in, fascinated despite my initial reluctance, when I stumbled across another of Dove’s highlighted portions:

From what I’ve pieced together, there were seven original Ancient vampires. The lines, and powers, of our fanged friends rely heavily on their original maker. The theory is, of course, that if the originator of the vampire line is killed, then so, too, are all the vampires associated with the Family. I believe this may be because the magic of the first vampire connects him, or her, to all their—for lack of a better term—children. Magical strings, as it were, and if those lines are instantly cut . . . ah, I suppose you understand.

The greatest mystery associated with the Ancients is the loss of Amahté. Some three thousand years ago, he disappeared. Some vampires “go to ground,” which means they go into hiding in an underground location for an unspecified time. Some do it to heal from grievous wounds, others to sleep through time, or to mourn quietly the loss of their mortal friends and lovers. I speculate that Amahté has gone to ground the longest. And he must still live if his vampiric children still walk the earth. But who is to know for certain?

Alas, I have not met any vampires who can give me answers to my many questions. My research has been pieced together through numerous source materials (listed at the back of this book), eyewitness accounts, and laborious field research. Evidence is always difficult to gain, no doubt because vampires prefer to remain in the dark (for obvious reasons).

I stopped reading and let the thought of an ancient Egyptian vampire roll around in my mind. It would be unwise to eject my scholarly insight, years of archaeological experience, and jaded mentality for a theory that was ridiculous. And yet . . . exciting. Not that I believed in the bloodsucking undead. Theodora Monroe obviously had an agenda in writing her book, and I knew full well that research could often be skewed to support a particular viewpoint. But what if there really was an Amahté? A king, perhaps. A blood drinker who created a Sekhmet cult. What if Amahté ruled along the same lines of Akhenaten, who brought monotheism to a very reluctant people?

I couldn’t get rid of the idea of a blood-drinking Egyptian pharaoh. The fanged
ushabtis
offered slight evidence for this outlandish theory. We’d found a very strange crypt. And I hadn’t looked at it from this viewpoint at all. I’d been disappointed to find it empty, sure, but given our time limitation we’d been as meticulous as we could have been in collecting information.

I glanced at the clock and cursed.

I’d spent a few minutes too long with the book and my thoughts. I grabbed the copy of
Vampires Are Real!
and my tote and left the office. I locked the door behind me and headed out to my car.

All the while I wondered . . . what if there was a pharaoh known as a vampire king? What if he had begun the traditions of modern-day mythology about the undead? Had my grandfather been wrong about Set’s temple? He’d done so much research, and gone to the Sudan every year since forever for the chance to find something wonderful. Something that could rewrite history.

Ancient Egyptian vampires could rewrite everyone’s history

In one teeny tiny corner of my mind, I wondered, too . . . were vampires real?

I grinned. What a ridiculous thought. Vampires.
Real.
Ha! Stupid Dove and her stupid book. I didn’t believe in the undead.

I had a front parking spot, so it wasn’t too much of a walk to my car. But it was dark out, and the wind had kicked up, rattling the dying leaves on the plentiful trees. August was sliding toward September, and students who’d spent the summer partying or working were still in serious mode. The later it got in the semester, the less attentive the classes and the more plentiful the on-campus parties.

I put the key into the door of my 1956 Mercedes 190SL. It had belonged to my grandfather, who’d purchased it as an anniversary gift for my grandmother in 1956. Mint condition, baby. It was silver with a red leather interior and a stick shift, and it drove like a dream. It was one of the many items I inherited when Grandfather died. But I would’ve given the car, and everything else, for just one more day with him.

I started to open the door . . . then paused, my fingers resting underneath the handle.

I couldn’t quite figure out what made me hesitate. Then I realized the wind had abruptly stopped.

I heard an electric crackle, and felt my heart skip a beat.

The parking lot lights nearest to my car went out.

And in the sudden, awful darkness . . . something waited for me.

Drake

I
hid in the shadows of the building, waiting. Moira hadn’t left her office yet. As soon as she did, I would follow her home and ensure that she arrived safely. For close to a week I had slept near wherever she was, in case she needed me at a moment’s notice. When she left the university, getting into her beautiful vintage Mercedes, I would turn into wolf form and run through the forest that bordered the road to her home.

After a week of this, I felt like her stalker instead of her protector. I found myself doing foolish things, like wandering past her table in the coffee shop just to get a whiff of her perfume. I was capable of tracking scents for miles, but the werewolf in me was not satisfied with drawing out that faint scent of dewed flowers from among all the others worn by humans.

The man in me wanted to be closer, too.

Much closer.

The naked kind of closer.

Just yesterday, I stood behind her in the line to get a very expensive latte, and couldn’t resist a swipe of my fingers against her hair. She’d worn it loose, and it was a curtain of silky red. She smelled like she’d bathed in flower petals—a light, crisp scent that made me think of sheets and sighs and . . . well, enough of that.

She did not turn around, and I left right then before I could do something else that would draw her attention to me. Like kiss her until those cherry lips were swollen and those green, green eyes were glazed, and that . . . Down, boy.

This was my last night of keeping an eye on Moira Jameson.

Patsy, queen of the vampires—those who recognized her authority, at least—had called me earlier and said that with Karn apparently in hiding, it was probably best to withdraw our resources to Broken Heart, Oklahoma, our headquarters, and figure out our next strategies for dealing with him. We expected the pyramid to reappear in the desert tomorrow—the “seven days hence”—and others had gathered at Moira’s dig site in preparation.

Karn would no doubt try for the pyramid again. We all knew that he would make his presence known eventually. He’d been popping up and wreaking havoc for the last couple of months. Pain in the ass. Some
droch fola
—the vampires who were soulless—were relentless in their stupidity. But if Karn was in Egypt . . . then he wasn’t anywhere near New York State.